


A study in Pocketlock

by Ridel



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, The Borrowers - All Media Types
Genre: A Study in Pink, Asexual Sherlock, Borrower Sherlock, But the same idea anyway, Gen, Pocket Sherlock, Pocketlock, RP, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Well not really, role play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ridel/pseuds/Ridel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd been looking for a cheap London flat, not trouble. But trouble John Watson found in spades when he discovered he was unwittingly sharing his new home with its very unusual prior tenant...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 221b

How Inconvenient.

Sherlock put his current predicament down to bad luck, rather than admitting he’d allowed himself to fall into a false sense of security. 

 

He’d been living a rather private life inside the walls of 221b Baker street for almost three years now, and though it had been much less interesting than his previous lodgings (The hospital had afforded him so many wonderful distractions) it was at least safe, and allowed him time to work on whatever took his fancy. These days, now he’d been forced to leave St. Barts and all the lab equipment he couldn’t carry (which was most of it) he whiled away the dull hours by stealing Mrs. Hudson’s newspapers and solving the crimes therein. Granted, usually after borrowing the landlady’s computer to do more research while she was out.

It did occasionally infuriate him when the police couldn’t deduce what he’d already figured out during his morning thimble of tea (again, courtesy of his unwitting landlady). If only he were a human, he could set them straight, visit the crime scene himself and point out the obvious clues they were missing! But he knew it would never happen.

No human would ever take him seriously, no matter how much more intelligent he was. He was only four and a half inches tall after all. 

But this annoyance was neither here nor there. Right now, he had a much bigger problem.

After three undisturbed years, he’d come to consider the flat proper to be his, and was therefore immensely put out when one uneventful Tuesday two humans, Mrs. Hudson and an unfamiliar man who could only be a prospective tenant, had walked in while he was in the process of dissecting a beetle he’d found in the wall. He’d been forced to abandon his work and take cover behind the old microwave.

Yes, this was most inconvenient indeed.

_

John was very pleased to have found the flat. To be honest, he had been beginning to despair of ever finding an apartment in London affordable enough for his army pension; and if he failed at that, who knows what would have to be done. Asking Harry was certainly out of the question. Still, the landlady seemed nice, and the flat was livable. "I'll take it," he said, turning to give the landlady a strained smile. Not once did he glance to the kitchen.

-

Three words. It had only taken three words to turn his quite comfortable living conditions completely upside down. Sherlock might have cursed, if there hadn't been two troublesome humans standing within ear shot.  
He needed time. Time to remove the news paper clippings he'd laid out on the bedroom floor, covered in notes and highlights. Time to remove his experiments, all of which would have surely raised the eyebrow of any thinking human. Time to clear all trace of himself from the flat, before the man got curious and started poking around where he was not wanted.

What a bother.

Still, not nearly as bothersome as moving his home, which was nothing like as easy for him as it apparently was for his new flatmate.

Sherlock sighed, resisting the urge to kick at the microwave in frustration. But only just.

-

John rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. It wasn't the landlady making him uncomfortable; it was the flat. The whole space had the air of... observation. Still, at such a deal he could hardly turn it down. "I'll, erm, move in tonight then?" he asked Mrs. Hudson. She walked him out the door as he made plans to pack up the few things he had and come back. It shouldn't take too long- barely an hour, he was sure of it. John Watson was moving in.

-

It was only after the door was closed and the two humans had walked down the narrow steps that Sherlock dared to react. Tonight, tonight! He'd have two or three hours at most. He made a mental checklist of what needed doing. 

First, since he was here, dispose of the beetle. A dead insect found in the drain was common enough not to trigger interest in most humans. An insect carefully dissected and laid out on the counter was a rather forward invitation to curiosity, which he was keen to discourage.

Secondly, the papers. Possibly the longest, but most important task. They included notes he'd made on various cases. Connections, observations, conclusions. If the man found them Sherlock might as well donate himself to the national science association. 

Thirdly, remove all of the ropes, ladders and bridges he'd constructed out of cobbled together rubbish.

He broke into a sprint. Hopefully his new flatmate would take his time packing. 

-

John sighed as he unlocked the door to the room he had been staying in temporarily. He rather liked the new flat, and was excited to finally have a place to call his own- though he did hope it ended up feeling a bit more inviting. Perhaps if he could get a job he could afford some comfortable furniture to put in it. A desk for his laptop, maybe a squashy armchair… yes, that did sound good.

Quickly and efficiently John packed up his sparse belongings. In truth they only consisted of a small suitcase of clothing, his laptop, cane, army mug, and revolver. His time in service had left him possessing next to nothing, but not needing much more than that either.

Taking one last look at the bare room he had called home the last week or so John smiled tightly. He was finally moving on with his life! Turning off the lights and shutting the door he moved back out to the street. Hailing a cab he threw his suitcase in the backseat and slid in next to it.

“Where to?" the cabbie asked, pulling away from the curb.

“Baker Street," John Watson replied. “221B Baker Street." 

-

Sherlock had been right on schedule. It was the human who was early.  
Air hissed between his teeth when he heard the heavy, limping gait on the wooden stairs.

This wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. He’d managed to remove several of the newspaper clippings, but there were still many left. They were cumbersome to roll up and near impossible to stuff into the disguised hole he used for easy access to the flat. 

He’d briefly debated the wisdom of opening the window and simply shoving the masses of paper outside. It was a windy night, and once out of the flat the scribbled notes could have been written by anyone. But he decided against it, on the principle that time was short and it always took too long to grapple with the heavy frame. He almost wished he’d followed through now. 

He heard the key turn in the lock, heard the human enter his home. Heard the limping steps getting closer and closer. 

There was nothing for it. Sherlock abandoned the last scraps of his hobby and made a break for the hole. Though he hated to admit it, the situation was out of his hands for now. 

-

John set his laptop on the kitchen table and put his gun behind some flowers on the mantle, where it would be out of the way and safe. Grunting with the exertion, and relying heavily on his cane, John picked up his suitcase and lugged it to the bedroom in the back of the flat. As he set it down it made a slight crackling sound unheard of in carpet, and he crouched down to investigate. There was a piece of paper stuck under the suitcase wheel. Tugging it free the man gazed at it in confusion. It was a newspaper clipping, crudely torn, of a murder that occurred less than a week ago. John remembered hearing about it on the telly. But what on earth was it doing in his new bedroom?  
Glancing about John noticed that little bits of paper seemed to be flung about all across the bedroom floor. Deciding the last tenant of Mrs. Hudson’s must have been decidedly eccentric, John picked up the lot and walked to the kitchen to chuck them in the bin. Hopefully the last person living there hadn’t left something more bizarre behind when they left.

They must have left in a hurry, John thought, because the place needed quite a bit of cleaning up. Oh, Mrs. Hudson had tidied things alright to sell it out, but it was the little things. Like bits of what seemed to be a beetle in the sink, the inexplicable notches on edges of almost every surface, and the general air that, until very recently, somebody else had called the flat home. 

-

It hadn’t taken the man long to notice that something was amiss in 221b. Sherlock observed him as he collected the papers, wincing as he knelt, and left with barely a glance, looking for all intense and purpose like he might just throw the lot in the nearest bin. It was both encouraging and vaguely insulting. His thought process was mapped out on each page, and it was a bit of a blow watching a man throw them away as if they were last weeks fliers. On the other hand, it meant his new flatmate was astonishingly obtuse, which meant perhaps he would brush off the other odd tells he’d left about the place. Once the man had gone to sleep, Sherlock would be free to remove the rest of the evidence.

In the mean time, he took a moment to catalog what he’d noticed about this new tenant. 

Name, John Watson, judging from the tag on his heavy looking luggage. Recently returned from the Middle East, Afghanistan to be more specific (again courtesy of the luggage’s airport check in tag). Leg injury, possibly a bullet, not recent, cane a psychological crutch rather than necessary healing aid, considering he’d forgotten to use it on his exit of the bedroom- 

Hmm...

-

John opened up the cupboards in the kitchen while he was there, and was displeased but not at all surprised to find them completely empty. “Groceries," he mumbled to himself, and sitting down at the table set about writing a list. There were lots of tiny bits of graphite broken off in the drawer of writing utensils, almost as if someone had crushed the tip of a pencil. Ignoring the matter entirely John chose a pen and scribbled a few items down in the scrawling, almost illegible handwriting so characteristic of doctors.

Folding the list up and sticking it in his pocket he pushed his chair back with a squeak, standing up and grabbing his jacket from the coat tree. After informing the landlady that he was leaving briefly to go to the store John walked out into the rainy London evening.

-

Ah, perfect. The man was leaving again, this time to procure groceries. The nearest grocery shop was about five blocks away. If the man walked it would probably take him about fifteen minutes both ways. If he stuck with buying a few light essentials then the actual shopping would not take long at all. Maybe ten minutes. If he decided to purchase groceries for the week, he may take longer, but would be more likely to call a cab than carry the heavy load home with his bad leg. 

Half an hour was a safe estimate. He’d have half an hour to do more clearing up before being forced to take cover again. 

Fortunately John had done him the favor of disposing of the most incriminating evidence of his residency, but there were still the ropes and homemade ladders to take care of.

Once he heard the man exit the building, Sherlock dashed out of hiding. His goal, the living area. 

-

John had hardly reached the nearest intersection before he noticed; his wallet was still packed in amongst his things. Patting down his empty jacket to make sure, he swore quietly under his breath, turning around and heading back to the flat. At this point it wasn’t worth trying to do anything; he would just order some Chinese delivery for the night and call it a day.  
As he made his way up the stairs he heard a light rustling coming from the flat. Mice? he wondered to himself. But no, Mrs. Hudson had promised the whole building was free of pests. So what then?  
Quickly and quietly he made his way up the rest of the stairs, opening the door with care. He was going to catch whatever it was and deal with it himself.

 

-

Another thing he envied humans for was their ability to cross a large room in a only a few steps. His small stature made running back and forth about the flat quite the cardiovascular workout, to say nothing of the climbing, jumping and carrying.  
He'd only managed to gather three ropes, all slung heavily over his shoulder, when he heard the first floor door open.  
Mrs. Hudson hadn't left the building, and when he heard the heavy limping, much softer but every bit as noticeable to his small ears, he knew that the tenant had returned. 

He'd been working to remove a paperclip ladder he'd connected to the windowsill, and was very much exposed.  
Steeling himself, Sherlock let go of the interlocking chain and dropped to the floor. He could easily survive a fall from this height, being such a small creature. He landed with a quiet thump, and only just managed to dive behind the old heater as the door opened, the paperclip ladder left swaying quite noticeably.

-

John entered the room cautiously and took a glance around. Nothing seemed different… until a piece of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Turning his head he walked to the windowsill curiously. Something was hanging from it, swaying slightly as if it had been pushed by a breeze. Except there was no breeze, none at all.  
He picked up the strange object with a hand and surveyed it. It was an interlocking chain, a small thin one, like the kind used to make ladies’ bracelets. It was hanging from a bent paperclip, which was stuck rather firmly into the windowsill.  
Well, now he knew what had created all the notches around the countertops.  
Still, who could possibly have put it there? Glancing about with a frown John noticed that there were similar contraptions littered around the rest of the flat, all leading to countertops, tables, even the mantle of the fireplace. This place kept getting more and more bizarre.

-

This was not a good place to hide. The heater was old, slatted, and easily moved. If the human (John he remembered) decided to check behind it, he would find himself in an extremely vulnerable position. And vulnerability was NOT a feeling he enjoyed experiencing. 

If seen, he would have to simply make a run for it. No doubt John would be surprised, and Sherlock could make use of that to get a head start on the man. But then, well, he would have no option but to abandon this flat entirely and look for some new lodgings. It wouldn’t do for some lumbering human to become curious about him. Down that road lay traps and poisons, cameras and tiresome chases, all of which would certainly distract from or even put a stop to his scientific and deductive hobbies. 

What an incredible nuisance this Mr. Watson was turning out to be! 

-

Shaking his head, John stood up and detached the paperclip from its lodging in the windowsill. Deciding the fine links had been left by the previous tenant as well, and the rustling he had heard was most likely caused by their movement in a draught (the old heater stood right next to it, after all, and nothing else could possibly have made the chain swing) he gathered them up and tossed them in the bin as well. With any luck they would be the last remnants of the previous lodger he would have to deal with.  
Putting them completely out of his mind after that, or at least attempting to, John found a restaurant suitably close by and called in an order. With that done he made himself comfortable at the kitchen table, where he had a good view of the living room and suitable hearing range for the front door. It seemed he had a bit of a wait before dinner arrived. 

-

What a rollercoaster his luck was turning out to be today. Watson had not decided to pursue the matter of the swinging chain, and had instead opted to continue his evening, ordering Chinese for dinner and sitting in the kitchen. Sherlock relaxed slightly, his life not in immediate danger. Though he had to admit, for the first time in years, he wasn’t bored. 

Or at least, he hadn’t been. Now he could see he’d be stuck behind this heater for quite some time, and should he move much, the man across the room would be sure to hear it. He let his back rest against the wall, settling in for the long wait. It was only then he espied the rat.

He stiffened in alarm. It wasn’t large as rats went, but it didn’t need to be. It was a fairly common shade of brown, and was skirting along the wall, far too close for comfort. 

Usually Sherlock set up his own traps in the tunnels, it being in his best interest to keep the creatures out of his flat, but this one must have got through somehow. 

It sniffed the air, and to the tiny man’s dismay, caught his scent, venturing cautiously behind the heating vent. 

It didn’t take a mind like Sherlock’s to tell the rat was hunting. Slowly, he reached for the closest weapon to hand, a pin he’d used to secure one of the ropes, now discarded beside him. 

The rat was wary of him, but also very hungry, judging by the malnourished look of the thing. Eventually, the need to feed would override its caution. 

It only took about six seconds for this to happen. The rat leapt. 

-

There was a loud squeak and a bump from behind the old heater. “What the..?" John muttered to himself, pushing back his chair and going to investigate. There were more squeaks as he approached and he scowled. Of course Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been entirely truthful when she said there were no pests. With her hip she probably hadn’t even been able to set traps properly.  
The old heater complained as it moved, but John was able to shift it enough to look behind it. A small rat took one glance at him and fled, scurrying back to the small hole in the wall from whence it had come. “Go on, shoo!" John sent it off irritably. Then he looked back at the floor behind the machine, and could hardly believe his eyes.

The rat had been lying on top of something else. That something looked like a small man, no more than five inches high. A discarded pin and some more of the chains lay beside it. Impossibly, it seemed the man was alive; he was breathing, and more over, he was bleeding. 

-

 

It landed on him, using its weight to bare him to the ground. Sherlock shouted in pain as its teeth sunk deep into the flesh of his leg. Even while he stabbed back at the creature with the pin, his mind calmly calculated the extent of his injury. 

Muscles torn, main arteries seemed to be intact, but the depth of the wound suggested he’d still bleed out before the night was through, assuming the rat did not finish him off. If he managed to survive, he would still not have full use of his left leg for several weeks, making the climbing which was part of his everyday life a virtual impossibility. He would likely starve to death, being unable to procure food from Mrs. Hudson’s pantry. 

Pity.

Suddenly, there was a heavy scraping sound, and the heater was moved away from the wall. 

“Go on, Shoo!” He heard from somewhere far above. Ah yes, somehow, in the face of his impending death, he’d forgotten about Mister Watson. 

The rat jumped off of him and scurried away, leaving a great many tooth and claw marks on its recent victim. 

Finally, the man gasped, and blurry though his pain addled vision was, Sherlock could see the look of shock on the humans face. 

There was nothing he could do. Running would do no good, if he could even manage to stand. He lay there, bleeding, his life now in the hands of a human of all things.

He did not expect his last few hours of life would be pleasant.


	2. Introductions

A stern look of concentration slowly overtook the one of shock on John’s face. His instincts as a doctor were quickly kicking in. Yes, the thing or man or whatever it was on the floor could not exist, not really, but without medical attention it/he was going to bleed out and die.  
Quickly groping in his pocket for a handkerchief John pulled one out and used it to gently pick up the tiny man. He fit in the palm of his hand and could have used the handkerchief as a blanket, but John had no time to marvel. The strange thing’s breaths were getting shallower, and blood continued to pour from the ghastly wound on its leg.

John quickly spirited it to the kitchen table, where he laid it down delicately. His mind racing through the procedures he should take he strode to his bedroom, to fetch the first aid kit he carried with him unfailingly.

 

0

 

Sherlock could not suppress the grunt of pain as the human lifted him from the ground, jostling his wounds no matter how gently. 

Sherlock had /never/ enjoyed being picked up by humans. It was horrendously intimidating, and he hated the thought of being helpless. Control was invaluable to him, but it was all too easily taken away, when his kind were seen. 

It was a bit of a surprise that Mr. Watson had forgone the customary disbelieving triad on how he must have been dreaming, or how impossible Sherlock’s existence was. 

Instead, without a word, the human carried him into the kitchen, lay him gently on the table, and headed off to his room to fetch something. 

Sherlock, through immense effort, managed to push himself into a sitting position. If he could only get down from this table, there was an entrance to the wall tunnels just behind the fridge. Perhaps he could make it before Mr. Watson returned, most likely with a dissecting trey, if his blithe acceptance of the smaller mans existence was any indication. 

Painfully, he began to stagger towards the edge of the table. 

 

0

 

John returned to find the small man up and struggling to get to the edge of the table. "Whoa there!" he cried, running over and blocking his way with a hand. Setting the first aid kit down within reach he attempted to gently, if firmly, get the creature to lay down again. "Don’t move, you’ll kill yourself at that rate!" he warned. Keeping a hand cautiously in front of the man he used the other one to open the first aid kit. "Just let me get that would taken care of or you’ll bleed to death."

 

0

 

"Whoa there!"

Sherlock startled slightly when the hand swooped down in front of him. 

"You’ll kill yourself at that rate!" John continued, and much to Sherlock’s surprise and distaste, gently pushed him back down, his weakened body giving in all to easily to the giant’s demands. 

"Just let me get that wound taken care of or you’ll bleed to death." 

The man rummaged around in what looked like a rather more professional first aid kit than the one Mrs. Hudson owned. The one he’d pilfered from often for experiments or other projects.

He tried to take his mind off of the involuntary terror that wracked his body by observing the human. Filing facts and deductions away into carefully organized lines.

It was most likely the blood loss that lead him to murmur them out loud.

"You’re a Doctor, professionally. Recently spent time in Afghanistan with the armed forces, see tan, army doctor I would imagine. You were honorably discharged after receiving your leg injury and have only returned to London recently and have yet to find a job. You crave a sense of independence but your army pension is laughable, well, they all are, and so you’ve chosen this flat based on its price rather than desirability, seeing as you barely glanced at it when Mrs. Hudson let you in..." He trailed off, mind fuzzy and wounds screaming. 

 

0

 

John glanced down at the man in surprise, only just refraining from jumping in shock after hearing him speak. Sure, he had been prattling to the strange being, but never once had he contemplated that it might speak back.  
"How?" John started, confused as to the true stream of facts coming from the small man. He shook his head determinedly and continued unrolling a length of bandage, carefully but quickly cutting it into smaller strips. Taking out the bottle of antiseptic he poured a bit on a cotton swab and prepared to clean the man’s leg. Looking him straight in the eyes, and wondering at the intensity with which they stared back, John warned, "Get ready. This is going to sting." 

 

0

 

Sherlock grunted loudly, his hands clenching and unclenching as fire seemed to consume his body. But to his credit he stayed as still as he could so as not to hinder the man in his attempts to save him. 

Whatever else he thought about the man, he had an astonishing practicality. It was really quite impressive to see in a human. Perhaps it was born of his time in the Middle East. An army doctor had to be practical and focused while the world went to hell around them, otherwise their patients died. 

"I d-don’t suppose you have any morphine in that pack." He joked grimly through his clenched teeth. 

 

0

 

John smiled grimly at the remark, tossing the bloodied cotton swab into the bin beside him. "No morphine, but once you’re bandaged I can get you some aspirin," he promised. Really, the small man was doing fantastically well for the amount of pain he must be feeling. Most men would have passed out already.

John took a closer look at the injury, carefully cutting away the ragged cloth around it. It was serious, all right; on a normal sized man he would have sewn it up, but since that was impossible under these circumstances he settled for a bit of antibiotic gel and a lot of luck. Once that was applied he wrapped the bandages, lifting the man’s leg up at gently as he could to wrap them around. Once every part of the tear was covered in sterile cloth he fastened it with a small piece of tape, though that piece still took up most of the man’s thigh. Once this was all over John was going to have a lot of questions for him- starting with just what, exactly, he was.  
"There we are," John said, removing his hands with a breath of relief. "It’ll be nasty for a while, but at least the bleeding will stop and it will heal." 

 

0

 

He wished that he could say he felt much better, but he didn’t. He knew his body would not be up to his normal standards for quite some time, but he could at least take a small bit of comfort in knowing that Mister Watson was finished prodding and probing his open gashes. 

"Thank you," he croaked, his voice ragged due to immense strain his body had just been under. 

 

0

 

"You’re welcome," John replied, and began to pack everything back up. He could tell that the man was still in quite a bit of pain, and probably wouldn’t appreciate John asking questions. So instead he took out a pill of aspirin and crushed it with a knife, leaving a powder behind that was fine enough for the man to swallow. Glancing about John spied an empty bottle cap left by the recycling, and after rinsing it out he filled it with cool water from the tap and set it down next to the powder.

"There you are," he said, just a mite proud of himself for thinking it all through so nicely. "Don’t take more than a handful, but that should help with the pain." 

 

0

 

Sherlock forced his tired muscles into action, sitting up painfully as Doctor Watson set the finely crushed aspirin and a cap full of water within easy reach. 

"A handful would be far too much in my current state," he muttered, again speaking when he’d have normally kept quiet, still quite delirious, for him at least, from the blood loss.

He leaned forward, taking a small and careful pinch of the white powder between his fingers, swallowing it quickly with just the smallest sip of water from the cap. He would have preferred something much stronger, but that was an area where humans won over him yet again. 

He slumped back down, exhausted, but wide awake. 

 

0

 

John tried not to frown at the muttered words. Of course it would be too much if the proportions were equal, but how was he to know?   
He pulled up a chair and sat down, looking at the figure sprawled out on the kitchen table. It was impossible, yet, here it was; John had touched him, felt the blood and the warmth coursing through him. No doubts about it, the man was undeniably real.

"What are you?" he quietly asked. He couldn’t hold back his questions anymore, at least not this one. The rest were arbitrary compared to the need for a name. 

 

0

 

He chuckled quietly, the soft sound turning into a painful cough in his battered chest. He swallowed heavily, trying to regain his voice.

"I have... Have to say, you’ve lasted an impressively long time without asking." He said. His eyes closed, too dry and tired to stay open, despite his abused body’s natural instinct to run and hide.

He was silent for a while, gathering what strength he had. "I am exactly what I appear to be, physically at any rate. A man, like you, if rather shorter." His lips curled in a small, wry sort of smile. He opened his eyes, looking the larger man in his own. 

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

 

0

 

"John Watson," John replied, a bit automatically. He had many more questions, to be sure, but the man - Sherlock, he reminded himself - looked absolutely exhausted. What he needed was rest, and a lot of it.

"You need to get some rest," he announced firmly. Easier said than done, he supposed; he had no idea where Sherlock lived, and at any rate he shouldn’t be moved. "Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?" the doctor asked, if a bit awkwardly. After all, it wasn’t everyday one found oneself playing host to a five-inch tall man.

 

0

 

"Yes." He answered without hesitation. "If you could help me down from this table and leave I would be most grateful." Right now all Sherlock wanted was to crawl back to his own little flat in the wall and sleep in his own, seldom used bed. He doubted Mister Watson would make it quite that easy for him, of course. But it was worth the asking. 

 

0

 

John shook his head. "I can’t do that. Your leg is in pretty bad shape right now, if I move you we risk misalignment of any ligaments, muscles, or bones that could be offset." He held his breath and waited for Sherlock to respond. From what he had seen the man could be stubborn to the point of ridiculous- when he came back from getting the kit the man had been trying to jump off the table with a shredded leg. And if he went back to wherever he stayed now, the likelihood was that he would never come back to get the bandages changed or his wound checked. No, John wasn’t letting him out of his sight; for more than one reason.

 

0

 

Sherlock growled in frustration. Partly because he knew he wasn’t getting out of this so easily, but mostly because he realized that Mr. Watson had a very valid point. "In that case I will need some form of protection, should the rat follow the smell of blood and finish the job it started. A box no smaller than six inches by four, weighted but with enough ventilation to keep breathing comfortable. A large pin for protection, and a handkerchief, to serve as a blanket. I’ve lost a lot of blood and expect I’ll continue to be quite cold tonight." 

 

0

 

John sighed; at least Sherlock had agreed to stay, if only for the night. "I’ll see what I can do," he breathed, standing up and giving Sherlock a wary look. "Don’t try to move, alright?" he cautioned him once more. With the way things had been progressing he would return and find Sherlock on the floor in a bloody mess.  
He left the kitchen and headed to the bedroom, thinking through the items Sherlock had requested. The box may be hard to find, but the pin and handkerchief easy" perhaps he should ask Mrs. Hudson for a bit of rat poison to spread about. He didn’t at all like the idea of his patient trying to fight off something else in his condition, and he was sure Sherlock found the notion even less pleasant. 

 

0

 

Sherlock did not think he’d be able to sleep much tonight. The pain still throbbed through him, and he knew the aspirin would put up a laughable fight against it. He had a worrying feeling that John would feel the need to play nursemaid for the next few days, and while the man was not quite as bothersome as he’d originally thought, he did not want to be confined too long. He didn’t like the idea of becoming too comfortable with the human. Yes, he was simply curious now, but Sherlock knew that when Humans became too fascinated by his kind, they tended to exert a more proprietorial air. Down that road, men became pets to larger, more powerful men. Be it in a subtle or overt way. 

Perhaps he would not move to a new building entirely, but it would certainly be prudent to stay clear of 221B for a while. 

However, since he would be stuck here for some time, it couldn’t hurt to talk with John a /bit/. He was after all a little curious about life from a human’s point of view.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. 

Ah, that would be John’s dinner, no doubt. 

 

0

 

John swore under his breath, dropping the things he had gathered on the bed and rushing to the door. He had completely forgotten about dinner. As he passed through the living room he glanced over at Sherlock, who to his relief was still lying prone on the kitchen table. Luckily enough the kitchen was tucked out of eyesight from the door to the flat.

Opening the door as little as he could without seeming rude, John paid the man and took his food. Setting the paper bag on the counter by the sink he went to retrieve Sherlock’s supplies. "Back in a mo’,"he promised his new acquaintance, and soon returned with a bundle of items. The pin and handkerchief had been easy enough to acquire, but the best he could do for a room was an old topless shoebox he had found at the top of the bare closet.  
"There we are," he announced, setting the lot on the kitchen table. "Sorry if it’s not exactly like you planned, I did the best I could."

 

0

 

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. It was a very weak gesture. "It is more than adequate John, thank you," he said, taking in the sight of the supplies. "You’ll need to cut some holes in the bottom, no larger than a twelfth of an inch each, and find something to weigh the box down so it is not easily lifted from the outside," he instructed calmly, as if it had not crossed his mind that he was helping the human effectively trap him. 

 

0

 

John frowned and looked about for something to cut the box with. Eventually he found a small knife in one of the drawers. "Dinner first," he said decisively, and began pulling out the Chinese food he had ordered. "Do you, would you like any?" he asked Sherlock tentatively, unsure quite what the small man ate, or if he was even hungry at all. Surely his body could use some nourishment to speed up the healing process.

Besides, John was starving. The box could wait until after food, especially considering that no rat was going to come around while John was in the middle of the kitchen.

 

0

 

Sherlock sighed. He certainly was not hungry, not with the roiling pain and nausea he was experiencing. But the fact was that he had not eaten in almost two days, being quite caught up in a case reported in the newspaper as a string of strange suicides. 

Eating would be hard, but he should do it anyway.

"Probably a good idea. I won’t require much." 

 

0

 

John portioned off a bit of food as neatly as he could, leaving out the messy bits likes sauce and placing it on a napkin close to Sherlock. He never handed anything directly to him; it just seemed a bit too awkward, such an invasion of personal space given their size differences. "It would be a good idea if you could manage it," John encouraged, returning to eating his own portion. "So, erm,"The words came out slowly, almost stammered; he wasn’t very good at making conversation, and didn’t get much practice with it. "You live in the building then?" Fair enough question he supposed, though he hoped it wasn’t too invasive. Sherlock seemed very" private. 

 

0

 

Sherlock once again fought to sit up, his leg screaming in protest. He ignored the pain, trying to focus instead on the food he would have to ingest. He suddenly found he did not like the idea of eating with his hands. Not in front of a human audience. It all seemed so... Mouse like. But, as no other options presented themselves, he simply reached forward and grabbed a stir fried pea.

"So... Erm... You live in the building then?" John asked. Ah, here it came. The verbal game of cat and mouse. Humans always fished for information when they had caught one of his kind. The trick was not to reveal anything that could lead back to your kin. Sherlock had no kin, at least not in this building, but still, if he wanted to keep living here he’d have to lead Watson in a slightly skewed direction.

"I use it often. It’s a place out of the rain where I can mind my interests in peace. Seems I shall have to find a new workroom now."

 

0

 

Now John felt bad- not only had Sherlock obviously felt the question to be too personal, but now he was forcing this man out of a space he had inhabited for much longer than John. "You don’t have to do that, you know," John carefully responding, unsure of how Sherlock would react. "I mean, you could stay. I won’t bother you, I promise." He meant it, too; he was curious about Sherlock (who wouldn’t be?) but the last thing he wanted to do was make anybody uncomfortable. Especially not somebody with a practically unusable leg and a high possibility of dying without it.

 

0

 

In a strange sort of way, Sherlock wished he could believe the man. He seemed like an easy enough person to get on with, as far as humans went, and frankly he’d become quite attached to the flat in the time that he had lived there, and would miss the ability to walk it freely. But it was... unwise. And it frustrated him. 

He put his food aside, barely touched. "I think I would like to rest now." he said, a little coolly.

 

0

 

It was understandable. Sherlock had been through a lot and was obviously unused to company. Still, John couldn’t help but feel a bit hurt. "Uh, sure," he said, putting the rest of his food in the refrigerator and hovering nervously. "I’ll, erm, be in the bedroom if you need anything." He turned sharply and left the room, thoughts and odd feelings tangling in his head. It had ended up being a very strange day indeed. 

 

0

 

Sherlock huffed irritably as the man left without setting up the box. It was obvious he'd disappointed John, possibly even hurting his feelings, but really, was that any call to leave him here without protection? Perhaps some damage control was in order. He was after all dependent on Mister Watson's good graces.

"John!" He shouted, hoping the man could hear him from across the room.  

 

0

 

A hopeful little spark kept in John’s chest as his name was called, though he would never admit to it. "Yeah?" he asked, popping back into the kitchen. Seeing the supplies left on the table he made the connection. "Oh right, the box, sorry!" He hurried over to remedy the issue, feeling awful about forgetting. In his defense, it had been a while since he had been for to care for a patient. But that, John knew, was no excuse. 

 

0

 

John caught on quickly as to the reason he'd been summoned back to the kitchen. Sherlock watched as the larger man set about fixing up his temporary lodgings. 

He didn't really know what to say to the man, or if anything needed saying at all. He had never been good with civil conversation, not among his own kind and never with Humans. How was one supposed to proceed? 

"I'm... sorry, for being so curt with you. You are doing me an astonishing service." He trailed off, unused to giving thanks to others.

 

0

 

"That’s okay," John replied in a small voice, still focusing his attention on the box. "I’m not doing my job as a doctor very well either, so I guess we’re both a little off." He did appreciate the thanks though, even in the indirect way Sherlock had given them. For a few horrid moments he had thought the small man had hated him, hated him for being in a place he had no right to be. Despite the fact that he had a perfect right to be there and Sherlock seemed a bit reticent, John still felt a bit that way. Being a rather short man, it was not often that John felt big or imposing. He wasn’t sure he liked it all that much, at least not under these strange circumstances.

 

"Done," the doctor sighed, having arranged the box to Sherlock’s specifications. He turned to the man on the table with a small frown. "Is it alright if I, erm, pick you up?" he asked carefully, flushing a bit at the awkwardness of the situation. "It’s really the only way to move you with the least amount of harm." 

 

0

 

Sherlock relaxed, insofar as that was possible in his current state. It was apparent he had not alienated John after all. He lay back down, resting his back against the unforgiving wood of the table. 

"That won’t be necessary." He said, closing his eyes and subconsciously steepling his fingers over his chest, the way he always did when he wanted to think without distraction. "Simply upend the box and place it over top of me." 

 

0

 

"Are you sure about this?" John asked, holding the box. Everything had been set up like Sherlock asked, but he still didn’t feel right practically trapping his patient in a cardboard box. John couldn’t help but worry about the small man; he had treated his wound, after all, so in a way Sherlock was his charge now. "Once I go to bed I won’t be able to hear you either- not through the box and the wall. If you have anything else to say, now is the time." 

 

0

 

Every primitive instinct he had was telling him no, that this was a terrible idea and he should be trying to flee, not submitting to this voluntary imprisonment. He ignored them all.

"I’m ready." He said flatly. "Once the box is in place, find something to weigh it down. A book, a mug, anything should do. Just so long as it insures the box cannot be lifted from the outside. At least," he smiled wryly, "not by anything my size." 

 

0

 

"Okay." John said hesitantly, and placed the box gently over his patient. Looking around he grabbed the only mug he owned, his army one, and set it neatly on top. "I’m, uh, going to bed now," he announced, feeling very strange standing in the middle of his kitchen talking to a cardboard box. Luckily he didn’t seem to have any neighbors at the moment, and Mrs. Hudson lived downstairs.

So there was nobody to call him crazy. Nobody human, at least.

 

0

 

Sherlock grunted a reply, pulling the handkerchief and the pin close. He really was very cold. He heard John step away from the box and enter the bedroom, leaving him alone in the dark with his thoughts.  
This had been a most unusually unpredictable day.

He thought about John, and he thought about the future, trying to calculate the likelihood of a... Well, call it a partnership,  actually working  between the two of them. John had offered to let him stay in the flat, and with a human around, he would not have to waste so much time pilfering from Mrs. Hudson.   
It would leave him more time for his true passion.   
Also, he would not have to wait for Mrs. Hudson to leave every day, if he wanted to use the computer. Sherlock had noticed what had looked like a laptop among Mr. Watson's meager belongings. He was sure the man would let him borrow it, if he asked.

 

Of course, there were always the usual considerations to take into account. If things did not work out between him and the human, if John grew frustrated or angry with him after the novelty of having a tiny flatmate wore off. He knew he was abrasive at best, abusive at worst.

 

Of course, John did not seem like the sort to intentionally harm him, but a careless swat or awkward fall could be fatal.   
It was amid mixed thoughts like these that the man finally fell into a light sleep, the pain keeping him coasting in and out of consciousness all through the night.  

 

0

 

John slipped into the bedroom and shut the door quietly. Sifting through his suitcase he pulled out his nightclothes, ignoring the rest. He lay on the unfamiliar bed with a sigh.

Today had been a very unusual day indeed. 

Of all the things to find in a new flat, he had found an impossible man with a seriously injured leg. Oh, and he happened to be less than five inches tall. John wondered idly if he was going crazy, more out of a feeling of obligation than an actual consideration. The events of the day had been all too real to be part of his limited imagination. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what to think of Sherlock. Most of his attentions had been paid to the wound, not the man himself. Sherlock seemed... distant, and a bit demanding. He was startlingly intelligent. How else could he possibly have known all those things earlier? Still, there was something captivating about the stranger; and not just his size. Something told John that a relationship with the small man would be an interesting one.   
It took John a while to fall asleep, what with all the thoughts in his head competing for attention. But when he did, he spent his first night since the accident not haunted by nightmares of the war. Yes, this relationship was going to be interesting indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to look forward to this Sunday:
> 
> Finding out who the next Doctor will be.  
> Pocketlock and John working a case, vigilante style. ;)


	3. Morning paper

The night was long, and haunted by sensations both real and imagined. He started awake a few times, unsure of where he was, heart abusing the inside of his chest. Was that the scratching of paws on cardboard? Was there a human inside his flat? Why was he in so much pain? At one point, he’d even thought he’d felt the hot breath of rat on his bare neck, but there was nothing in the box with him. He put it down to heightened stress and his semi conscious state.   
It was an immense relief when he woke once again, and saw grey light filtering through the air holes and knew the night was finally over. He felt... Well, he did not feel himself, after such a stressful night.   
Perhaps he could get Watson to read a section of the newspaper to him when he came for breakfast. It would help to exercise his mind along different lines than he had all night.

000

 

John woke up in the morning a bit dazed, wondering in equal part where he was and why he felt so rested. He had an odd nagging at the back if his mind that more was different than the bed. Yawning, he shuffled his way to the kitchen; and saw the box. 

Oh. Right. That. 

Being as quiet as he could he removed the mug and carefully lifted the box. If Sherlock was still sleeping he certainly didn’t want to wake him up. Still, his bandages would need changing, and his wound checked for infection. 

000

“Good morning John, I trust you slept well.” Sherlock had lapsed back into the position he’d been holding when the Doctor had originally left, eyes closed and hands steepled. He wouldn’t admit it, but it was an immense relief to have the box removed from overtop of him. 

 

000

“Morning," John automatically replied, admittedly a bit surprised to find Sherlock awake. Usually it was John who woke up earlier than others; old habit. He was about to ask if Sherlock slept well, but figured that was a rather stupid question given the circumstances and settled for, “Want some coffee or anything? I’m going to need to work on your leg but that can wait until after breakfast." John placed the box on the kitchen counter; they wouldn’t be needing that for awhile. 

000

“No coffee.” Sherlock answered in his usual flat tone, his stomach revolting at the idea of caffeine. “I will attempt to eat eventually, but water will suffice for now... Thank you.” He added, remembering to at least try to be civil. 

He opened his eyes, bloodshot though they were, and took in his flatmate’s condition. He seemed well rested, and was handling Sherlock’s continued presence with the same professionalism he had last night, which was encouraging to say the least. 

“Although, if you could fetch a morning paper, I should like to hear if there have been any updates on the recent chain of suicides.” If his theory was correct and there was more to these deaths than simple desperation, then by his estimate, there should have been a new body found by now.

000

"Sure, I think I can get one," John said plainly, though in his mind he was wondering at Sherlock’s knowledge and interest in the suicides. It seemed his new acquaintance not only read the news, but took a rather peculiar interest in it as well.

Going to the front door of the flat John picked up the newspaper on the threshold, placing it on the table next to the cap of water he had refilled for Sherlock and going to make himself some toast. “So what’s your interest in these suicides, then?" asked John, returning to the table with his bread and some jam. It was mostly an attempt to make small talk while he ate breakfast, but that was not to say his curiosity wasn’t piqued.

000

“Well they’re very interesting suicides.” Sherlock said, sitting up far too quickly, his enthusiasm outstripping his strength. He kept the grimace of pain in check, talking over it to conceal his discomfort from the doctor.

“Three identical suicides, each with the victim found in a place they had no reason to be, each killed via orally administered poison. The first death, October 12th, Sir Jeffrey Patterson. Successful business man, loving wife, loving mistress, died in an abandoned building merely an hour after telling his PA he was on his way to the office.  
November 26th: One, James Phillimore, 18, no history of depression or other mental illness believe it or not, left his friend waiting in a downpour, apparently to fetch an umbrella from his nearby flat. Died two hours later in a gymnasium which had shut for the night.  
January 27th: Beth Davenport. Local MP, to the Ministry of Transport. Last seen alive at a party to celebrate her recent nomination. She’d been drunk, according to her assistant, who had removed the car keys from Beth’s purse to prevent her driving home. The next morning Mrs. Davenport is found dead in a container park three miles from her last known location.  
All different ages, professions, emotional stability, and incomes. by looking at the victims themselves, it’s hard to discern a link. Why should suicides be linked? Ideally they shouldn’t, but these ones are, blatantly so. The signature circumstances of their deaths lends itself to more than mere coincidence.”

Sherlock was struggling to his feet, eager to unroll the newspaper. 

 

000

 

John listened intently, not bothering to conceal his interest. It wasn’t often he paid much attention to the news, especially not the crime part, but the way Sherlock explained it the circumstances seemed much more mysterious than a typical London incident. “Here, sit down, I’ll get that for you," the doctor said, not wanting Sherlock on his feet. Taking the newspaper he flipped it to the right page before holding it up for Sherlock to see. “This what you’re looking for?" he asked. In a small column was a report of a fourth suicide, alongside a statement by one Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. It seems Sherlock had been right yet again; the suicides were now being treated as linked, according to the police. John was beginning to wonder just how Sherlock knew all of this.  
 

000

 

Sherlock was a bit miffed when John had forced him to sit, being rather used to doing things for himself, but all of this was forgotten as the pages unfolded before him, displaying the latest in the string of suicides.   
His eyes tore through the story hungrily, absorbing ever detail. The more he saw, the more agitated he became.   
“Wrong, wrong, a little bit right but still wrong. Why? Why are they still insisting it’s suicide?!” 

 

000

 

"Maybe because they took the poison themselves?" John tried, stating the obvious. "I mean, what else could it possibly be?" Sherlock didn't seem inclined to trust the police, for what reasons John could only guess. Still, they were the professionals, and certainly had more experience than an ex-army doctor and a five-inch tall man. So if they thought it was a suicide, John was more than willing to believe them.   
"And even if it's more than that, we can't do anything about it," the doctor pointed out. "They'll figure it out soon enough, whatever it is."

 

000

 

“Anything. Everything. There are multiple factors that could cause someone to take a poison pill. Perhaps they were being coerced, a family member was being threatened, or some third party convinced them they ought to take their own life. Playing upon Mr. Patterson’s adultery, or Mrs. Davenport’s history of alcoholism. It’s happened before. But the locations, the identical poisons, it’s all too tidy, too uniform to be anything but planned, carefully calculated and masterfully executed. The killer is clever, but that’s no excuse for the police not to have put this together themselves by now. At this rate, we’ll have three more bodies before ‘soon enough’ rolls around.” He pounded the table beneath him in frustration. He knew he could solve the case, if only he were allowed.

 

000

 

He had a point; somebody else could die before the Yard figured it out. John certainly did not like the sound of that. "Even so, what could we possibly do?" he asked, folding up the newspaper again and looking intently at Sherlock. "You can't exactly go strolling into Scotland Yard to tell them your theories, now can you?" Not with his size or his leg- and even then the police didn't consult amateurs.

 

000

 

“No, of course not,” said Sherlock, his eyes locked intently on nothing, thinking about what his Human acquaintance had just said. “No, I can’t... The main reason being that I’m not human. But you are.” He felt the corners of his lips quirk upwards. He’d just hit upon a most novel idea. 

000

 

John didn't quite like the gleam that had sprung into his companion's eyes. "What do you mean?" he asked hesitantly. A man daring enough to climb up windowsills and fight off rats twice his size certainly had limits far beyond John's. Who knows what kind of insane plan Sherlock was making?

 

000

 

“What I mean, is no human in their right mind would take me seriously,” he said, not bothering to keep the traces of venom out of his voice. “Not being human, my ability to do almost anything of worth has been subject to certain... restrictions. You take it for granted, you know. Being talked to. Being ‘listened’ to. Having the ability and the right to leave the flat whenever you choose. If I were human, I could solve this. No one else would have to die because of this killers little game.” He put that last bit in more for Johns benefit than any particular moral obligation. Just so long as he could prove he was right, finally have SOMEONE understand how clever he really was, he would be happy. 

“As I stand right now, I can’t do these things, impeded as I am, but you Watson, you have no such disability.” 

 

000

 

John stayed silent for a moment. It was a lot to take in, after all. Up until this point he hadn't really thought of what Sherlock's every day life must be like; of his challenges and need for secrecy. It was no wonder he seemed unused to talking to people. Everyone he met must see him as a freak at best, an animal at worst. It would be terrible. "Alright," John acquiesced with a sigh, making a decision for himself even as he said it. "I'll help. What do you want me to do?" Sherlock's certainty about catching a killer was compelling, and had stirred up John's natural moral aptitude. If he could help in any way, he would take the opportunity. And after all, it wasn't as if they could just sit around the flat all day making strained conversation with each other.

 

000

 

The smile on Sherlock’s face was one of triumph, which he hid from John by rubbing his face as if he were tired. 

“Well, right now, though I’m certain of what I know, I don’t know ‘enough.’ The papers and the internet are no substitute for first hand data. I need to see the latest crime scene.”

 

000

 

"And how do you suggest we do that?" John asked wryly. He had said he would help, and of course he meant to, but he had to draw the line somewhere. Attempting to get into an active crime scene most definitely crossed that line.

 

000

 

Instead of answering the question directly, Sherlock looked John in the eye, an almost mischievous glint in his own. “John, could I possibly have a lend of your laptop?”

 

000

John sighed, but by now knew it was useless trying to wrest a real answer off the man. Sherlock was quite possibly the most stubborn personality he had ever met. "Fine," he agreed, and grabbed it from the kitchen counter where it was resting. Typing in his password he unlocked the laptop and set it down within reach of Sherlock.

 

000

 

Using the pin as a sort of poor mans cane, Sherlock got to his feet and hobbled onto the keyboard, his face not registering anything, despite the violent protest from his shaking leg.  
Hmm, this would be a challenge. “I usually use a pencil stub to type,” He muttered to himself, hating the fact that his weakened leg would not support him should he start jabbing away at the keys the way he usually did. He didn’t particularly want John’s help for this one though, his pride demanding he do something for himself at last. 

 

000

 

John inwardly winced as Sherlock stood up, but knew the small man wouldn't tolerate being told to sit down again. "I think I saw one in the drawer," he responded, recalling that when he had pilfered through the kitchen the day before there had been a broken pencil in one. Turning around he rummaged through until he found it, a broken shaft with a nub of eraser still intact at the end. He held it up for Sherlock to see and asked, "Will this work?"

 

000

 

Sherlock nodded decisively, though his leg shuddered in protest. “That will do nicely. This could take a while, John. I’m not the fastest typist. Perhaps you would like to unpack your things?” He hinted gently, not enjoying the idea of John hovering over his shoulder while he struggled.

 

000

 

He got the hint. It had been the same when he was wounded- the need to feel independent and worthy and /able/, not just coddled and aided by everyone else. What Sherlock was going through was no mystery to John. "Right," the army doctor said, standing up and walking to the edge of the room. "Just, erm, holler when you're done. And don't put too much pressure on that leg." He gave Sherlock one last glance and left for the bedroom, hoping not to have to fix Sherlock up again when he returned.

 

000

 

Sherlock breathed what might have been a small sigh of relief when John understood his meaning and left to straighten his room, and undoubtedly twiddle his thumbs a bit while waiting for Sherlock to finish typing out a sentence. Despite everything he had come to think he was, indifferent, morally and emotionally detached, he liked John. He was useful, level headed, and above all, didn’t waste time asking stupid questions. He’d also given Sherlock what was without a doubt the single greatest gift he could ever have received, though John would probably never understand the full magnitude of his offer of help Sherlock investigate, REALLY investigate the cases he’d up until now only studied from afar.   
He grunted as he lifted the pencil, putting as much weight as possible on his good leg.

There was of course, another reason he had wanted his new human alley out of the room. He had an idea that John might not actually approve of his hacking into Scotland Yard’s computer system... 

 

000

John left the bedroom door open so that he could hear Sherlock should he call. Looking down at his suitcase with a frown he wondered what exactly he was doing. It seemed as if his entire life had been turned upside-down since he had moved into 221b Baker Street. But despite all of his reservations, he found he enjoyed it. It was... refreshing to have somebody to talk to and something exciting to do, even if they were slightly abnormal. His therapist had told him he should write a blog about everything that happened to him. He couldn't write up /everything/ that had happened to him- his therapist would lock him up- but perhaps he could write some of it. Perhaps it would help him get it all straight.  
Speaking of which... he really should be unpacking. With the crisp efficiency of the military John began moving his few things to the lone dresser in the room thinking that maybe, if everything worked out, he would like to stay here for a while.

 

000

 

It was maybe an hour later when Sherlock let the pencil drop to the tabletop, exhaustedly doing the same himself, though with more care. He was drenched in sweat, and needed to get his breath back before he even thought about calling John. All in all, he was satisfied with his results. The crime scene had been cordoned off only this morning, the story making it into the paper with breakneck speed due to the latest victim being something of a big name in the entertainment industry. The police had gone over everything with a fine tooth comb, and now it was time for all good coppers to head back to the yard to scratch their heads. There were some guards left around the crime scene, but after hacking into the surrounding CCTV footage, he was sure he’d found a way in where neither John nor he would not be spotted. 

“John!” He called, once again sounding composed, if not looking the part. 

 

000

 

John had been resting on the bed when Sherlock called. "Find what you needed?" inquired the doctor as he entered the kitchen, displeased to see Sherlock had exerted himself but relieved that his leg still seemed intact. Those bandages still needed changing, however, and he planned to do so before anything else ridiculous got under way.

 

000

 

Sherlock perched on the edge of the laptop, feet resting easily on the table. He would have looked the picture of nonchalance, if it weren’t for the strange dampness of his shirt and the tell tale tremor of his left leg.

“Of course I did,” He answered blithely. “I’ve plotted out the rout we will take to get into the crime scene unnoticed, the time at which we will do it, and exactly how much time we’ll have before someone catches on to us. Are you up for a little adventure, John?” 

 

000

 

"I'm not so sure about this..." John replied. He was not wholly unprepared for this; considering Sherlock's nature it was a likely suggestion. "It's pretty illegal to sneak into a crime scene, you know. And /you/ may not be able to get arrested, but I certainly can." Reaching for the first aid kit he opened it back up again and took out what he would need. "Regardless, that leg of yours needs looked at. I need to make sure there isn't some nasty infection settling in."

 

000

 

Sherlock looked back at John, a little, well, a /lot/ put out by his reaction. “Pretty illegal,” he muttered, just barely loud enough for John to hear. “Worse than murder? Because that’s what will happen again if someone doesn’t put the police on the right track.” He sighed, still making no move to submit to John’s ministrations. “Fine then, a compromise. You take me to the building and drop me off. I’ll find my own way up to the room the fourth victim was found in and meet you once I’m done. Is that a suitable arrangement?” 

000

John shook his head, but held up a finger before Sherlock could protest. "I don't want you walking around any more on that leg. I'll get you into the crime scene if you let me change out your bandages right now. Deal?" He wouldn't admit it to Sherlock, but the idea of sneaking into somewhere forbidden thrilled him at a deep level. Besides, Sherlock had a point about the murder thing, and he seemed to know what he was doing. If they did it right, nobody need know they had been there at all.  
More than that, it seemed the only way to get Sherlock to cooperate with his medical administrations.

 

000

 

That small, smug smile returned to tug at Sherlock’s lips. “Deal.” He said, sliding from the laptop so he could lay flat on the table, allowing the doctor easier access to his injury. He knew John would come around, if only he suggested he stay out of the exciting bit.

 

000

 

The doctor breathed a sigh of relief and set about carefully tending to Sherlock's leg. It was still looking pretty gruesome, but there was no sign of infection or crippling muscle damage. Better yet, it had seemed to miss the bone entirely. John cleaned it out again to be on the safe side and applied the same cream he had the night before. Wrapping it up again in clean bandages he looked at his work in approval. It seems he hadn't lost his touch after all. "Alright, you're all set," he informed Sherlock, and cleaned up the old bandages as well as the first aid kit.

 

000

 

He hardly noticed the pain at all this time. How could he? His eyes were bright, his mind ticking over, his excitement near palpable. Today he would finally get to apply his methods to something truly devious. These weren’t the child’s play deductions he made from the safety of his flat. He knew, given the extra data and the added risk, that he would have to complete a solid, believable case out of this. For his own satisfaction, and of course for John, should he be nicked. 

He willed himself upright and stood to attention, like a greyhound itching to leave the gate. “We’ll have to leave soon John,” he blurted eagerly. “The longer we wait, the staler the evidence!” 

 

000

 

Sherlock had never seemed so excited, so animate; John marveled at the change. "You said you had a time that would work best," he reminded Sherlock, giving up on getting the man to sit down and rest his leg. He himself felt the patter of anticipation in his chest, one he hadn't felt since the war. They were about to do something very real and very risky; and he loved it. In the most unlikely of people he had found a kindred spirit.

 

000

 

“The safest time to attempt our entry would be late tonight, around three am perhaps. The most convenient time to arrive would have been early this morning, when the body was fresh. The optimum balance of safety and convenience should be around eleven forty five am. If we leave now, we should arrive with a few minutes in pocket change. Always wise when relying on London taxi service.” 

 

000

 

For a moment John wondered about Sherlock's experiences with the London taxi service, but quickly put that out of his mind and focused on more pressing matters. To his astonishment, he realized he already trusted Sherlock enough to agree to this mid-day scheme. "I'll get my coat," he simply announced. Pulling the familiar coat over his jumper he returned to the kitchen. Looking from Sherlock to himself he pondered aloud, "What would be the best way to do this?"

 

000

 

It was something to which Sherlock had given some thought, when the idea of using John as a sort of human taxi service of his own had come to mind. “Your jacket has a breast pocket in the interior lining. No don’t look like that, I haven’t invaded your privacy, it’s a standard design in your brand of coat. I will ride in said pocket, if you’ve no objection. Oh and bring your phone. Not many people speak to their chest. The phone should make you look sane enough.” 

 

000

 

It seemed Sherlock had figured everything out, down to the last detail. Since his phone was already in his pocket, John reached for Sherlock. His hand hovered near the small man as he struggled with what to say. Sure, he had picked up Sherlock before, but that was in a different situation, and Sherlock hadn't been in any state to protest. This... this was awkward. John eventually settled with a hesitant "Uhm, may I?"

 

000

 

Oh for god’s sake, this should not be giving him pause. Despite everything, the planning, the adventure, his newfound partnership with a man who had shown nothing but compassion and willingness to assist Sherlock in his greatest ambition, he still barely managed to suppress a flinch as the human’s hand reached for him. Curse his feeble body’s primitive reactions. They were getting in the way of work. 

“Yes, yes you may.” he said impatiently, more frustrated with himself than Watson. 

 

000

 

With trepidation and a great amount of discomfiture John wrapped a hand around Sherlock's torso and legs, being especially careful near the injured one. As smoothly and gently as he could he slipped the small man into his inside breast pocket. "Are you okay?" he asked, looking down at Sherlock and finding the angle unusual and troublesome. "That didn't hurt your leg, did it?" He wasn't sure what to think of moving Sherlock with his own hands; it seemed like such an invasion of his privacy.

 

000

 

“Fine, everything’s fine John!” Sherlock called, feeling anything but. His leg did hurt from the slight drop and awkward angle, but he’d never tell John that. More than that though, was the immense discomfort of his proximity to Watson. He’d never been much of a man for physical contact, but here, in this very warm, very dark cloth hammock, he felt himself pressed up against the man’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his enormous heart- almost as large as Sherlock himself- and the deep thrum of his lungs- the size of a small room- filling and emptying of air. He’d felt almost completely at ease with John for a while. It was quite the reality check, being this close and realizing once again how small he really was. But all discomfort aside, he was still excited for the excursion to come, and wouldn’t have left John’s pocket now for the world. 

 

000

 

John zipped up his coat halfway, leaving Sherlock room to move and breathe but giving the pocket more stability. It wouldn't do to have his jacket flapping about with an injured man inside.   
Inside his coat... this certainly was a new experience. He could feel Sherlock's every movement against his chest, every rustle and shift. It was strange to say the least. Never before had he felt so big in comparison to someone, so bulky and indelicate. The feeling wasn't a pleasant one. Still, he couldn't stop and wonder at it; they had a crime scene to sneak into. He walked down the stairs and out onto the street, raising the arm opposite Sherlock to hail a cab. Realizing he didn't know where they were going he pulled out his phone and held it to his ear, before asking Sherlock, "What's the address?" A cab pulled up and he slipped inside, still waiting for the response.

 

000

 

“22 Northumberland Street.” he called, relying on the heavy jacket to muffle his voice from all but Watson’s ears. He itched to have a look outside. He’d never observed London from the point of view of a normal human in a cab, but he knew well enough to stay put, no matter how long the cab ride took. 

 

000

 

"22 Northumberland Street," John relayed to the cabbie, resisting the urge to look down into his pocket. He kept the phone at his ear in case Sherlock wanted to talk but relaxed back into the seat, content to watch London race by out the window. He loved the city; he couldn't bear to live anywhere else. Idly he wondered what the enormous city looked like from Sherlock's perspective, if it seemed lonelier or more dangerous. It must be entirely different from what John took for granted.

 

000

 

They did not speak much during the long cab ride. Sherlock had thought it prudent to keep their interaction to a minimum while in public. But when he felt the cab slow down, and he felt the unmistakable sensation of John exiting into the street proper, he finally spoke up. “There should be an Italian restaurant nearby. Looked like a good place to observe the address until the time comes. Take a window seat and order some lunch. I’m starving.”

 

000

 

John did as Sherlock asked, finding a quaint little bistro on the corner next to the address. Taking a seat by the front window he smiled politely at the waiter and took a sip of his water, looking quickly over the menu. He chose the first thing that sounded good and ordered it. "Food's on the way," he informed Sherlock, his phone at his ear and his eyes looking out over the street. "Are you still all right?" Even with the smooth drive it was John's worry that Sherlock's leg could have been jostled too much.

 

000

 

“Really John, you are taking this mother hen thing too far. I’ve managed my entire life without assistance and I have, occasionally, endured similar wounds.” Almost true. 

“Though I must say you’re taking all of this incredibly easily. Have you stopped to consider what it is you’re doing right now? About to intrude on a crime scene on the suggestion of a tiny man you’ve known for all of twelve hours, who is currently sitting in your pocket? I’m curious. /I/ know my conclusions are correct, but why do you?”

 

000

 

John was about to retort something snarky about not being a mother hen but his /doctor/, but Sherlock's next questions stopped him in his tracks. Yes, he had thought through it a bit, but had he ever considered /why/ he felt the way he did? He certainly wasn't going to figure that out in time to answer Sherlock.   
"You seem to know what you're talking about, and you haven't been wrong yet," he said, somewhat evading the question. "Besides, you're my patient, it's my responsibility to look out for you, and you obviously seem determined to go." He took a sip of water and avoided Sherlock's gaze. To be honest he didn't know why he was doing what he was. It was all so unusual; perhaps unusual enough that he decided to skip his usual amount of sane skepticism and go straight to the rash action part.

 

000

 

Inside the pocket, out of sight of the doctor, Sherlock smiled. It was an evasive answer, which indicated that John wasn’t entirely sure why he’d done what he’d done in following his patient’s instructions. It would have been vexing, if Sherlock wasn’t already sure he understood exactly what had motivated his human flatmate. He didn’t bother to bring the subject up though, feeling a surge of satisfaction that Watson had actually acknowledged the fact that he had been right on all counts so far. It seemed such a small thing, but recognition wasn’t something he was used to, and he found he rather enjoyed it. 

Instead, he asked a different question. “John, what do you see when you look at our crime scene? Who’s standing outside, what are they doing?”

 

000

 

John peered more intently out the window, looking at the address across the way. "It's fairly empty, almost nobody's around at this time of day. A couple people are on the sidewalk but they just walk by and... wait..." He paused as a cab pulled up in front of the address. It stopped there, but showed no signs of picking anybody up or dropping anybody off. "A cab pulled up," John continued, "it's stopped right now but doesn't seem to be doing anything."

 

000

 

“Get the number, we can worry about it later. We can’t afford to chase tangents now. Investigating the crime scene is time sensitive. We need to get in before they move the body to the morgue!” Sherlock insisted, trying to straighten up and sneak a peek outside of the pocket. 

 

000

 

John dutifully memorized the license plate number and tucked it away in his mind for reference later. Feeling Sherlock moving he opened his coat a bit more, allowing him to see out the window John was looking through. "So where do we go from here?" he asked, wondering what kind of roundabout way they were going to take into the crime scene. The food came and he thanked the waiter with a brief glance.


	4. Pink

Sherlock chose to observe the building across the street rather than answer John, the doctor eventually becoming frustrated and starting on his lunch.  
There were at least two guards placed outside of the building, posted to keep the press and curious passers by out. It looked as if the media circus had dissipated however. Now the two men were left with nothing to do.  
He squinted his eyes, trying to register the face of the policemen standing at the entrance. Bored, inattentive, hungry, judging by the longing glances they kept sending towards the bistro. Perfect time, in fact.  
"Get the waiter to pack the food away. We should walk around the block and approach the building from behind. There is a ground floor window near the back on the right side, the glass has been smashed, but the flat is unoccupied and the landlord is cheap, it hasn't been replaced yet, merely covered over with plastic. We can enter through there. After that, it's just a matter of locating the correct flat number."

000

"Alright." John motioned for the waiter to pack up their untouched food in a to-go box and, taking it in one hand, left the small bistro. Per Sherlock's plan he leisurely made his way around the block to the back of the building, quickly spotting the plastic-covered window that was to be their entry point. Seeing as there was nobody around John slipped his phone back into his pocket. Setting the bag of food on the ground just outside the window he warned Sherlock, "I'm going to climb in," before doing so as gracefully as he could (which is to say, not gracefully at all). Standing up inside the forbidden building he dusted off his pants and closed the plastic behind them. He took a look around: the room was bare, with peeling wallpaper and a rough, unpolished hard floor. Dust lined everything in a filmy layer. It was obvious nobody had lived in this particular building for quite some time. "Where to now?" John asked Sherlock.

000

"Fourth floor. The room shouldn't be hard to find." Grunted Sherlock, trying to recover from the incredibly jarring intrusion into the building. He again pulled himself upright, using his good leg and the lip of the pocket for support. No one was going to see him anyway, and things were getting a little too exciting to resist.

000

Nodding instinctively, though he didn't know whether or not Sherlock could see that, John slipped quietly into the hall and made his way up the spiral staircase in the middle of the building. Reaching the fourth, and top, floor he pulled the sleeve of his jumper over his hand and pushed open the door to the only room. "Oh," he gasped lightly, frozen in the doorway. There was a dead body in the middle of the floor. It was what he had expected to see, he supposed, but it was still rather shocking after all this time. Not to mention the fact that they weren't supposed to be there in the first place.

000

It was almost childish, how eager Sherlock had become on catching sight of the body. A very disturbed child perhaps, but childish nonetheless.  
"Put me down near the body. Stand by the door and keep an ear out." He instructed.

000

John obediently reached into his pocket and extracted Sherlock, setting him down on the floor near the pale head of the dead woman. The small man seemed much too eager about the situation, it wasn't normal; then again, was anything about Sherlock normal? Returning to his place by the door John looked over at Sherlock and the dead woman and did some observation of his own. The first thing he noticed was the alarming shade of pink the deceased was wearing. Pink coat, pink shoes, pink lipstick... pink everything. She definitely seemed to be one of the suicides: there were no traces of blood or struggle on her, just a faint swelling at the neck suggesting she took some sort of poison. John had no idea what more Sherlock thought he could get from the body.

000

The body was maybe four hours old by this point. The first thing Sherlock did was check under the collar of the woman's pink jacket.  
Wet.  
He felt the arm of her coat. All still damp.  
Interesting.  
He hobbled over to the woman's pocket, having taken the sturdy pin with him to continue using as a cane. He saw a large lump under the pink fabric. Upon examination it turned out to be a small umbrella.  
Dry.  
He examined the jewelry the woman had been wearing. Pristine, very well maintained.  
Next, he walked towards the woman's outstretched hand. Nails the same vibrant shade of pink as her outfit. Edges torn and chipped. She'd scratched a word into the wood of the floor. The letters were deep, It would have hurt her immensely. The word was important.  
Rach-  
The first thing that came to mind was the German word for revenge. He dismissed that thought quickly, as it obviously had no bearing here.  
Rachel?  
Why would this woman have taken the effort to scratch out the name? A witness? A password?  
He noticed the wedding ring on her left hand, the one she'd used to scratch out the text. Filthy, covered in scratches and notches. He grabbed it, managing with no small effort and a few painful gasps he hoped Watson hadn't heard, to work the ring free on her finger. It was polished clean. She often removed it.  
Serial adulterer.  
Finally he moved further down. He had to scrabble on top of one of the victims vibrant pink shoes to examine her legs, but he was glad he had.  
The police files he'd hacked into hadn't mentioned anything about this.

"I think we're done here."

000

He watched with curiosity as Sherlock made his way around the body, looking at odd details John had no idea of the significance of. "Find anything worthwhile?" he asked when Sherlock finished, walking over to the dead woman's feet. Kneeling down he offered a hand to the tiny detective.

000

"Yes," answered Sherlock, holding still so as to allow John to help him back into his pocket. "The police have missed something. Something very important and so painfully obvious. Her suitcase John, where is her suitcase?"

Before John could answer him, they both heard the distinct sound of footsteps on the spiral staircase outside.

000

John swore under his breath, wrapping a hand around Sherlock as quickly and carefully as he could and tucking him back into the jacket pocket. Standing up quickly, he looked around for a possible escape route. Going out the way they came in was impossible; whomever was on the staircase would certainly see them. The only option was the lone window on the other side of the body. Pushing it open, and wincing as it creaked complainingly, John looked out through it. The roof of the next building, a three-story shop, was right below them. "Hang on tight," he warned sherlock, before climbing onto the windowsill and jumping onto the building below. Glancing nervously at the open window now behind them he searched the roof for a way down, eventually spotting a nearby fire escape and dashing down it. Breathing heavily from the exertion and adrenaline he darted under the overhand of the building, out of sight from the crime scene, and leaned up against the wall there.

000

Detective inspector Lestrade was not having a very good day. As soon as the body of Jennifer Wilson had been identified, he'd been swamped by so many reporters demanding updates he couldn't give, that he hadn't even had a chance to view the body himself yet.  
"What's the world coming to when the chief inspector of Scotland Yard can't even access the scene of a high profile murder before the bloody press start hounding 'im? How do they find these things out so bloody fast?" He griped.

The thin, dark woman beside him was about to answer, but stopped walking abruptly. "Did you hear that, sir?" She asked, eyes wide in surprise. It had been the unmistakable sound of footsteps in the room above, followed by the squealing of an ancient window frame being pushed open. Inspector Lestrade was already running.  
He burst through the door just in time to see a man with sandy blonde hair jump out of the window. Definitely not one of his men.

"Oi! Stop!" He shouted, running to the window. But the man was surprisingly fast, and had already started clambering down the opposite buildings fire escape.  
He turned to Donovan. "Find that man." He ordered. The woman was already making for the stairs, her phone in hand.

000

John glanced back towards the building, where he saw a woman with curly dark hair dashing out the door and looking around. "I told you this wasn't a good idea!" he griped through gritted teeth, mostly to himself, before taking off in the opposite direction. If he could get through the small London alleyways quickly enough he could lose them. Hopefully they hadn't gotten a good look at him as he left the room.  
Donovan glanced around and swore quietly to herself. The man they had seen at the top floor was nowhere to be found; and given the possible directions from the building, he could be anywhere by now. It was hopeless trying to chase after him. "He's gone, sir," she told Inspector Lestrade, who had made his way down the stairs as well. The silver-haired inspector frowned and rubbed his temples. "Tell nobody about this," he warned Donovan. "If the press gets ahold of this they'll have a bloody field day with it." Donovan nodded and he turned to go back up the stairs, grumbling about how bloody young people were always making his job so much more difficult and how ridiculous it was that a Detective Inspector couldn't even get a good look at a body without civilians messing about.

000

The feeling of free falling as John leapt out the window, though expected, left Sherlocks heart in his throat. He grunted as they landed, the sudden return of gravity slamming his bad leg against John's chest. He grit his teeth, refusing to cry out. This had been his idea and he'd suffer the consequences in silence.

"Oi! Stop!"

Oh, they'd been spotted.  
John must have been climbing down a ladder by the mad jostling of the pocket. Once he hit the ground, he took off running.

"I told you this wasn't a good idea!" John hissed through clenched teeth.  
Sherlock fought with physics and won, dragging himself up to look out of the pocket again.

"Left!" He shouted. Sherlock may have never walked these streets himself, but he'd memorized the entire map of London, down to it's seamiest backstreet.

000

Barely hearing the call over the mad thumping of his own heart John darted left, sprinting into the narrow alley he wouldn't have seen were it not for Sherlock. Eventually they came out on a main street, which to John's surprise was one quite close to Baker Street and the flat. Trying to calm himself down and not look suspicious, he walked collectedly if purposefully down the sidewalk. With any luck they had lost the Scotland Yard pursuers and could return home without further incident.

000

"John, take your phone out." Sherlock said, having ducked back down into the pocket to avoid being seen as they entered a busier street.  
He continued, not even waiting for an answering twitch. "We can't go back to the flat yet. This is very important. The killer's made a mistake, his first so far. We need to find Jennifer Wilson's suitcase before anything else."

000

John fumbled in his pocket for his phone, pulling it out and holding it up to his ear so he could talk to Sherlock. "And how do you propose we do that?" he demanded, a bit irritably. He was still upset, if only over the small manner of, oh, having to run from the police. "The case could be anywhere. She could have checked it into a hotel for all we know."

000

"No! No, she would have had it with her! She'd just come in from Cardiff, she wouldn't have had time to check into a hotel between arriving in London and turning up dead. She forgot her case in the killers car! He must have driven off without realizing it, but he's clever John, he would have noticed it eventually. He would have had to dump it fairly quickly. It's somewhere nearby, I know it!"

000

"How..?" John marveled at the facts Sherlock had gathered, and wondered how he had arrived at them, but knew now wasn't the time to ask. "Nevermind. Where do you suppose we should look for it?" He gazed around the bustling London streets skeptically. Where on earth could a serial killer, if there was such a person, have hidden a woman's suitcase? There were too many options to consider, in John's opinion. Still, if he knew anything at this point, it was that Sherlock was sure to come up with something.

000

Sherlock closed his eyes, conjuring the intricate map of London up to play behind his lids. He saw the building, branching streets and alleyways. Where, where would the killer have ditched the case?  
His eyes snapped open. "Down the street, three blocks, east another, two blocks south, there are a series of businesses, industrial dumpsters, garbage pickup tomorrow morning 3am. We'll start there."

000

"If you say so," muttered John, who set off in the direction Sherlock had detailed. Dumpster diving was quite honestly the last thing he wanted to do at the moment, but he was in too deep to stop now. There had been four murders, a dead body, and a run from the police. It was safe to say that John was now thoroughly involved.  
Besides, Sherlock would pitch a fit if they went back to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting more into the fun stuff now. :)
> 
> If you've got any feedback for Creatorofuniverses (John) and I, please don't hesitate to share! We're planning to make a series out of these Pocketlock stories, so any comments on what we seem to be doing right or wrong would be really useful.   
> (Also of course we just love to hear what you guys think. XD)


	5. An enemy

While John walked, Sherlock sat in the curve of his pocket, thinking their situation over again.  
The police had seen John. He wasn’t sure if they’d gotten a good look at his human companions face or not, but chances were they’d be able to check the CCTV footage from the surrounding buildings, and so it was only a matter of time before they put a name to the mysterious civilian who’d been interfering with their crime scene.  
If John found Jennifer Wilson's case, it wouldn’t be wise to take it back to the flat. He didn’t want Dr. Watson to be caught with anything belonging to the dead woman. John, who had been so level headed and willing to help despite the smaller mans unorthodox demands, was turning out to be a precious commodity with which Sherlock was not yet willing to part.  
They’d have to examine the case wherever they found it. That wouldn’t be a problem for him, but he wondered how much more cooperation he could expect from John. The man was obviously getting irritated, and there was always the possibility that, if pushed too far, he would simply put an end to this little expedition. 

 

John didn’t quite know what he wanted to do. Helping Sherlock had blossomed rapidly from aiding a wounded man in his flat to being caught at an active crime scene by Scotland Yard. The smarter, self-preservation oriented part of him wanted to lay low at the flat, maybe take a vacation- try and leave Sherlock and all this madness behind for a healthy while. But he knew he couldn’t do that; not morally and not realistically. He didn’t have enough money to move out of the flat he just rented, for one. And of course he couldn’t just leave Sherlock and a potential serial killer behind.  
Still, the run from the police was going to be trouble. He’d have to figure out what to do about that later.  
Turning the corner John saw the industrial dumpsters Sherlock had mentioned. The small man’s knowledge of London amazed him; not only did Sherlock know the streets, but what they looked like and what was in them. How he knew all of this was beyond John. Still, it had proved helpful, and questions could always be asked later. For now, the mysterious pink suitcase Sherlock claimed was here.  
John let out a satisfied exclamation and reached into the middle dumpster, dragging out a small pink suitcase that had been thrown on top. “I think I found it!" he told Sherlock proudly, setting it on the ground and kneeling next to it. 

 

It was all he could do not to scrabble out of the pocket himself the second John found the case. Instead, he waited, rather impatiently for the good doctor to carefully remove him from the interior of his jacket and place him on the ground next to it. His eyes roved it hungrily, snatching and absorbing every detail. He limped around the side, finding exactly what he had hoped to find affixed to the top handle. He smiled.  
“This is absolutely brilliant John! In the course of a few short hours we’ve collected all the data we need to be getting on with. We should return to the flat. You’ll want to put the case back now, and don’t forget to wipe it down where you’ve touched it.”

 

John followed Sherlock’s sound advice, carefully wiping down the handle he had grabbed before using his jacket sleeve to throw the case back into the dumpster. Kneeling down again he carefully transported Sherlock back into his jacket pocket before heading back to Baker Street.  
They arrived at the flat without incident, though John was intercepted by Mrs. Hudson in the hall and had to make small talk as quickly as he was able. Finally reaching the relative safety of 221B, John shut the door behind him with a sigh of relief. After locking it for good measure he made his way to the kitchen, where he was able to deposit Sherlock on the table and slump gratefully into a chair. 

 

Sherlock wasted no time in limping over to John’s laptop, taking a seat, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers. There was so much information buzzing around in his head. He’d never had this many details to work from before, usually only being able to work from second, third or even fourth hand information, which was as good as useless. He closed his eyes, ordering every observation and clue for easy access. 

“John, tell me, what did you think of Mrs. Wilson?” He asked, eager to see how much his companion had picked up from visiting the crime scene. 

 

John raised his head blearily from where it had been resting on the table. Part of him was surprised that Sherlock was interested in his opinion; he seemed the type to trust only in himself. "Er, well she died of poison," the doctor said, stating the obvious clues he had gathered from their brief time with the body. "Choked on her own vomit. No signs of struggle, so she took it herself." His eyes lit up as he recalled the last thing he had noticed. "Oh, and there was that funny word she had carved into the floor."

 

“Yes, Rache. You’re right John, Jennifer Wilson did take the poison herself, but it wasn’t suicide. She’s left us a valuable clue. I just need to figure out who Rachel is.” 

 

"Rachel?" John asked quizzically. "Is that what the word was?" It sounded faintly German to him, but a name was definitely a more believable message. He was also interested in how it could not be a suicide; Sherlock seemed confident in his murder theory, whatever that was.

 

“Of course Rachel, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Said Sherlock, genuinely surprised. “John, I’m going to need to think about this for a while. You might as well eat your lunch and relax. You’ve been very accommodating.” Sherlock laid back, eyes closing again so as to shut out the distractions the flat offered. 

 

It was obvious the conversation was over. With a small sigh, mostly of exhaustion from the morning's events, John stood up. He was halfway to the fridge before he remembered- new flat, no food. "I'm going to go get groceries," he muttered aloud, mostly for Sherlock's benefit, and went to retrieve his wallet from the bedroom. Leaving the flat he made sure to carefully lock the door behind him, before treading down the stairs and heading towards the nearest corner store.

 

As the man left his flat at 221b Baker Street, a CCTV camera turned slowly, following the man until he turned a corner. However, it made little difference, as the cameras on the next street also turned, seemingly of their own accord, silently observing the man from all angles. As he was about to walk past a red London phone booth, this too seemed to react to his presence, letting out a sharp ring, than another, and another. 

 

John paused briefly, looking at the red phone booth in confusion. Usually you called others from the pay phones; he had never heard of one ringing itself. Glancing around, and realizing that he was alone on the street, John slipped into the small box. The phone kept ringing as he looked at it with a puzzled frown. Almost impulsively he reached out and took it off the receiver. "…Hello?" he asked, completely unsure as to what he would hear.

 

The phone line was as crisp and clear as the voice which traveled down it. An unfamiliar male voice.  
"Look to your left, Mr. Watson. Do you see the camera?" It asked.

 

Chill traveled down John's spine as the unknown caller mentioned his name. He said the first thing that came to mind as calmly as he could. "Sorry, who is this?" As curious as he was confused, he followed the voice's directions and looked to is left. There was an inconspicuous white CCTV camera hanging from the building next to him.

 

"The camera, Mr. Watson." the voice repeated calmly, as if it might go on all night if need be.  
The camera was trained on the little red phone box, but not for long. Before the befuddled Doctor's eyes, it turned, looking down, deliberately blocking John from its sight.  
"Good. Across the street there is a bakery, and another camera." The man prompted.

 

John's mind was reeling. The thought that somebody, and entirely unknown somebody, who had enough power to change security cameras, was concerned with him was at the same time confusing and worrying. Following the instructions he looked through the smeared glass to the bakery across the street, where he found another camera lurking in the corner. As soon as he looked directly at it, it turned aside as the previous one had. The voice prompted a third and a fourth, until every camera in the vicinity of the phone box was conveniently pointed away. Something was definitely going on, and John was certain he didn't like it.

 

A long, black car with tinted windows rolled to a silky stop on the street just outside the phone box. It's intent was unmistakable.  
"I won't insult you by making some sort of threat. I think your position has been made quite clear, doctor Watson."  
One of the black doors was opened expectantly.

 

With a frown John hung up the phone, which was buzzing with the tone of a recently terminated call. Sliding out of the red box he stared at the spotless car for a moment, before taking a deep breath and shuffling in. The driver shut the door behind him and walked back around to the front. To John's surprise there was someone else in the backseat besides him; a strikingly beautiful woman with long dark hair, who didn't even look up from her phone when he hopped in the car. "Er… hello," he said haltingly, unsure of the entire situation. He never had been good at talking to girls.

 

The woman was busily texting, apparently unconcerned or even unaware of the man that had just slid into the seat next to her.  
She spared him a quick, distracted glance and a small disinterested smile. "Hi." She said, and then turned back to the texting at hand. It was apparent introductions were not her top priority at the moment.

 

John pursed his lips, put off a bit by the apathetic reply. He looked out the window, only to realize he had no idea where they were. "I'm John, by the way," he said, in an attempt to make any kind of conversation.

 

The woman didn't even bother to acknowledge him this time. Instead staying focused on her phone.

 

Well this certainly wasn't going anywhere. John was beginning to tire of being dragged all over London of other people's volition. There had been more than enough strange occurrences for the day, enough adrenaline and mystery. Honestly he just wanted to actually /make/ it to the grocery store. "Any point in asking where we're going?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. When it came back negative he sighed, and toiled on. "What's your name?"

 

"Uh... Anthea." She said, again, favoring her phone over eye contact with the increasingly irritated man. Finally, the car pulled into a large, dark warehouse, rolling to a stop under dim halogen lights. The driver again exited the car and opened the back door. A feigned pleasantry, seeing as the doctor had been all but kidnapped.

 

Obviously not her real name… but at least he had something to call her now. Anthea didn't even look up as John exited the car, taking in his surroundings with a cursory glance. Cameras, a dark car, a deserted warehouse; somebody had a flair for the dramatic. John had ceased attempting to predict his life at this point, and as such had no expectations of what he was going to see.

 

In the room ahead of him, underneath a light slightly brighter than the rest, was a table. In front of that table, stood a man.  
He was a big man, dark and imposing. The sort of presence someone might expect to see protecting the president in overblown American films.

 

John approached him calmly, but cautiously. He wasn't intimidated, he had seen better fighters in the war, but it's was always safest to be wary of potential threats. He halted a few steps away from the man, who remained stoic and silent. "I'm guessing you can't tell me why I'm here either, can you?" the doctor asked irritably. The man looked more like hired muscle than the brains of the operation (whatever that may be).

 

The man stood impassive.  
A voice finally addressed the kidnapped man, but it didn't come from the large, stony man before him.  
"Doctor Watson, I'm sorry for the dramatics, but when one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet. Hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

 

John looked to the table behind the man. Upon it stood a miniature person, a lanky figure wearing a crisp suit and leaning on a black umbrella. Of course; never seen a tiny person in his entire life, and he meets two in two days. "I'm fine," John coolly replied, remaining standing. He didn't bother to ask how the man knew about his leg- at this point nothing could surprise him. Least surprising of all was the fact that this entire escapade was somehow related to Sherlock.

 

The tiny man on the table seemed completely unfazed, and continued to smile in a knowing, condescending way. You don't seem very afraid." The man said, perhaps making a reference to the large and imposing man next to him.

 

A corner of John's mouth quirked up in a wry smile. "You don't seem very frightening," he replied dryly. He didn't like this little man; he seemed very pretentious, and John was still miffed about the whole kidnapping business.

 

The lack of respect John Watson was generating didn't faze the small man. "Yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity don't you think?" He said, in the same level tone. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

 

John's brow furrowed. "No connection," he replied automatically. "I just met him yesterday, I hardly know him."

 

man seemed slightly less amused. "Yes, you did. And within the first 17 hours of your acquaintanceship, you've trespassed on an active crime scene and been forced to escape the police. I can only assume you did not wake up this morning and decided to commit a felony. So you're solving crimes together now. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

 

"Sorry, who are you?" John asked coldly. He had had enough of this man's uncanny knowledge of and intrusion into his life. One tiny know-it-all was perfectly enough, thank you very much.

 

An interested party." The small man said blithely. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

 

"And what would that be?"

 

"An enemy." The man smiled again.

 

Of course. This was, after all, Sherlock they were talking about. Nothing was going to be normal. "An enemy," John muttered, mostly to himself. His pocket vibrated, and he pulled out his phone. Somebody had emailed him:

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. -SH  
Sherlock. He had the laptop with him, he had emailed John's phone. But the laptop was password protected, how...?

 

The mysterious 'enemy' paused, allowing John to check his phone, but speaking as if there had been no gap in conversation.  
"In his mind certainly. If you were to ask him he'd probably say his archenemy. He does love to be dramatic."

 

Well thank god you're above all that," John replied sardonically. This coming from the man standing in an empty warehouse, whose bodyguard wore sunglasses at night. He put down his phone, but kept it held in his hand.

 

The tiny man's face again lost its humor. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

 

John nearly laughed, though not from humor. He looked down at Sherlock's "enemy" with an un-amused smile. "I really think it's none of your business."

 

"It could be." He retorted.

 

"It /really/ couldn't," the doctor coldly responded. The two men stared each other down for a moment, before the phone in John's hand buzzed once again. Another email:  
If inconvenient, come anyway. –SH

 

"You're very loyal very quickly, Doctor Watson. And yet your therapist has made a note, trust issues, it says here." The man snapped his tiny fingers. The man with the sunglasses removed a small notebook from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table, open to a page near the middle, covered in cursive scroll. It was recognizably the one John's therapist wrote in during their sessions.  
"Could it be you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

 

Who says I trust him?" John retorted. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. This man had uncanny knowledge of his life, down to the notebook his therapist wrote in. Even worse, he was right; John had decided to trust Sherlock, had from the very beginning, for seemingly no logical reason.

 

It was perhaps a bit strange, to see a full grown man being menaced by another, who only stood about at tall as the humans upturned palm.  
The tiny figure stepped lazily around the notebook, swinging his miniature black umbrella, which could only be for show, as he did so.  
"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

 

John looked up at the ceiling in an attempt to keep calm. When his eyes met the man's once again they showed otherwise. "Are we done?" he said curtly, tone and tight lips betraying his feelings.  
He wanted nothing more than to leave.

 

The man smiled. "You tell me." He glanced at John’s hand, resting on his cane. "I would warn you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, but I can see from your hand that's not going to happen."

 

"My hand?" John blinked, confusion briefly overcoming his confusion. How on earth was his hand pertinent to the conversation?

 

"Show me." The man stated.

 

With a sigh of exasperation, John stuck his phone in his pocket and held out his hand for the tiny man to see.

 

The man stared at Watson's hand through half lidded eyes. "Remarkable." He muttered, but in the tone of one who is not surprised by what they've just seen. "Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you."

 

What's wrong with my hand?" the doctor demanded, withdrawing said appendage with a frown. He didn't like this game anymore.

 

You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks its posttraumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service—" He was cut off abruptly.

 

"How the /hell/ do you know that?" John's voice was shaking, full of restrained emotion. It was as if the man had reached deep into him and pulled out the stuff of his nightmares. This day had just been too much.

 

"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around." he continued, unmoved by Watson’s outburst. "You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. Welcome back."

 

John was spared the trouble of replying by the buzz of his phone. Practically yanking it out of his pocket he read the email.  
Could be dangerous. -SH

 

man motioned to his bodyguard who laid his hand down flat on the table. "Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson." he said, as he stepped onto the hand, not bothering to spare John another glance. The bodyguard lifted the small man, and walked further back into the warehouse. It was obvious the conversation was over.  
"I'm to take you home," Anthea said from behind him, eyes still glued to the phone in her hands. "Address?"

 

"Er… Baker Street," John replied, following her back to the car. "221B, Baker Street."

000

Back at the flat, Sherlock lay on his back, having taken the 'blanket' from last night and folded it into a serviceable cushion. He rested his bad leg on the edge of the laptop. It was a fact that his kind tended to heal faster than humans, but not that fast. The running and falling and jostling about he'd subjected himself to earlier in the day was taking its toll on him. He hoped he'd be able to conceal it from Watson. His human was going to be annoyed enough when he found out why Sherlock had texted him.  
Speaking of, he'd been gone an awfully long time, considering he'd just gone out for groceries...

 

The sleek black car pulled up to the door of the Baker Street flat. After another failed attempt at conversation with Anthea, John stepped out onto the welcome sidewalk. Climbing the stairs to his room he unlocked the door and walked inside, closing it behind him with an exhausted huff. "Sherlock?" he queried, turning the corner into the kitchen.

 

"In here." He called. But then really, where else would he be?  
As soon as he caught sight of John he could tell something had happened. For one thing, he had no groceries with him. For another, he looked even more irritated then when he'd left. Sherlock had rather hoped that the walk would have provided his new flatmate with a chance to recover from the days minor annoyances. "What's happened?" He asked.

 

"Met a friend of yours," he replied curtly, taking a seat at the table. He noticed that Sherlock's bandages looked rather worse for the ware, most likely because of their earlier escapades.

 

Sherlock’s brows furrowed in honest confusion. "A friend?"

 

"An enemy," John corrected. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Sherlock didn't often interact with people, even among his own kind. So, a bit like John then.

 

Ah." That cleared things up. It was immensely frustrating though. He'd only gone out of the flat with John once, and already his dear brother was butting in. And by the look on John's face, had been rather heavy handed. But then he always had a flair for the dramatic.

 

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "What did you email me for?" he asked quietly, attempting to regain some control of his life.

 

"Oh yes, I need to use your phone." It was a completely reasonable request.

 

The doctor scowled at him. "You couldn't use the computer?" he complained, practically moaning. All that trouble, over the use of a mobile phone. The whole day he had been dragged around because of Sherlock, and frankly he was tired of it.

 

"Didn't want to risk the IP address being traced." He stated, sitting up pointedly.

 

"Ugh. Fine." Sitting up straighter he dug in his pocket, pulling out his phone and setting it down on the table next to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock scooted a little closer, wincing as he moved his bad leg to gain better access to the phone. It was much easier typing on the smaller device than on the computer, and in record time (for him) the text was sent. He sat back, satisfied.

 

With a yawn John sat back down at the table; he had made himself a cuppa while Sherlock was doing his thing. "So what was all that about?" he asked, taking a tired sip.

 

He wanted to explain, he really did, but he also wanted to avoid being swatted by an irate human, and so he replied with an ambiguous "Just a bit of fishing. Nothing to concern yourself with."

 

Right," John scoffed, but had a feeling he didn't actually want to know and didn't push it. He gestured his cup of tea towards Sherlock. "Want some while I redress your leg?"

 

Sherlock sighed distastefully, not thrilled at the idea of having his aching leg worked on again, but he agreed nonetheless. "Might as well." After all, he hadn't actually eaten yet that day.

 

John poured a bit of his tea into the bottle cap Sherlock had been drinking water out of. "Sorry, no food," he apologized. No food for him either; after all, he still hadn't made it to the grocery store. Once he was done with that he grabbed the nearby bandages, unwrapping Sherlock's leg and setting to work on it.

 

It was actually impossible for Sherlock to drink the hot tea from the bottle cap as Watson worked. He longed for the appropriately sized dishes and utensils he'd fashioned for himself, which lay back in his warm, comfortable home. Perhaps he could convince Watson to allow him to gather some of his things tonight.

 

The doctor frowned as he exposed the wound. Sure, it still looked terrible, and none better for the exertion it had undertaken that day, but it definitely appeared to be more healed than one and a half days would permit. "This is closing up faster than I thought," he muttered, mostly to himself, and set about re-wrapping it.

 

"Hmm, a few days more. I should be able to do without the bandages by then." Sherlock observed. "After a week or so I shouldn't have to bother you for transportation."

 

"Really? That fast?" John asked in surprise. He stuck the last bit of tape on and sat back in his chair. "You must be a quick healer." He wasn't entirely surprised; a man with impossible anatomy was sure to have a few quirks.

 

Sherlock shrugged. "We all do. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to heal as slowly as a human. So much time wasted."

 

"Yes, well, you win some you lose some I suppose." John put back the bandages and sighed. It had been such a long day. "I'm beat," he announced, standing up. Turning to Sherlock he asked, "Anything I can do for you before I get some sleep?"

 

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. "You've done quite enough for me already, John. Get some rest." He stood slowly, testing his tattered leg, making sure the bandages were fitted well.

 

He watched his patient stand carefully, and when he was satisfied that he would be okay said, "Alright. Well, see you in the morning then." With that he turned off the lights and strode into his bedroom, about ready to collapse.

 

It wasn't long after John had left that the phone buzzed, an incoming text message lighting the screen. 

You know, the police have identified that new pet of yours. What are you up to? -MH

Sherlock sighed in frustration, not stooping so low as to answer the text. Instead he turned to the computer, and logged onto the net. He had some facts to check.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> You might notice this chapter is formatted a tiny bit differently...  
> Basically, I took out the divisions between our separate posts because there were so many short, one sentence replies, and they really butchered the flow. :S
> 
> But as always, Creatorofuniverses played John, and I played Sherlock/Mycroft.
> 
> Let us know what you think! :)


	6. Scotland Yard

When John woke up the next morning, everything was the same as it had been; a half-unpacked suitcase, lit by dim shafts of morning light coming through the thin curtains. No more nightmares either; it would seem as though a new set of habits were forming. John shuffled out into the living room with a yawn, looking towards the table to find Sherlock. To his surprise the small man was still asleep, passed out on top of the laptop keyboard. He must have stayed up later doing whatever it was he does.

 

It wasn't often that Sherlock slept, but when he did, his body made up for lost time. He didn't wake up for a few hours, allowing John some precious, uncomplicated time to himself.

 

Which he used to finally make it to the grocery store. To his immense relief he made it there and back without any incident to speak of, and was even able to stock the fridge and the cupboards without waking Sherlock. Before he left he had gently moved the man to the nearby handkerchief, so that he wouldn't have to continue sleeping on the hard laptop surface. After all this he made a cup of tea and sat down in the armchair in the living room, savoring the silence.

 

Unfortunately, it didn't last. There was a knock at the door. Sherlock jerked awake, eyes wide, startled and confused. It was morning already? When did John show up? Hadn't he been on the computer?  
The knock came again. The tiny man locked eyes with Watson. "Expecting someone?" He asked, voice scratchy with disuse.

 

John looked back at Sherlock, just as surprised. "No, no one," he replied, almost in a whisper. Standing up he put down his tea and approached the door. "You should probably get out of sight."

 

Sherlock looked around frantically. There was the box, but he wouldn't be able to lift and flip it over in time. John was already at the door. In the end he had to settle for dodging behind the laptop screen. It wasn't exactly a brilliant hiding spot, but it would have to do.

 

With one last worried look towards the kitchen, which was thankfully just out of sight, John opened the door. His eyes immediately widened with surprise at what, or rather who, was on the other side. "John Watson?" the silver-haired man on the doorstep said. It was the same detective who had run in on John the day before; at the crime scene. John just stood there gaping. "You're going to have to come with us."

 

It had been the takeaway food container that had given Mr. John Watson away, as bizarre as it was. They'd found the box outside of one of the ground floor windows, still warm from the pasta inside. A dust for fingerprints had revealed the takeaway box's previous owner. One look at the man’s face was all Lestrade and Donovan had needed. It was definitely the same man from the crime scene.   
He seemed quite surprised to see him again.

 

John's mind was going a mile a minute. The police were here. What on earth was he going to say to them? That he was at an active crime scene because a five inch-tall amateur detective wanted to take a look at the body? They would put him away! "Um, er, right…" he eventually stammered out. "Let me just… get my coat." He shut the door again and dashed into the kitchen. Sherlock had gotten him into this mess and he certainly was going to help him get out of it.

 

Blow that. Lestrade jammed his foot in the door, keeping it open even as his suspect walked away. "I'll just keep an eye on you, shall I? Wouldn't want you to do a runner again. Not before we've had a chance to properly introduce ourselves."  
The flat was sparse to say the least. There was practically no furniture to speak of, and it had a sort of... dusty quality to it.

 

Of course that wouldn't work. "Of course!" John agreed in a falsely cheery voice. He whirled around so that the laptop (and Sherlock) was behind him, his front to the inspector and his back to the kitchen. "Come on in. My jacket's right here." Without turning he reached for his coat, which was draped over the chair at the kitchen table.

 

Greg might have seemed relaxed, but he was in fact highly alert, expecting this mister Watson to perhaps pull a gun on him in a bid to escape.   
In fact, this did not happen. Later he would almost wish it had, because what happened next was the beginning of a very complicated chapter in his life.  
"John, don't be rude. It's still early, and the inspector hasn't eaten yet. The least you could do is offer him some tea."   
Detective Inspector Lestrade blinked. He didn't see anyone else in the flat, but the voice had definitely issued from the empty kitchen.  
And then, before his astonished eyes, a... Very small man, walked out from behind an open laptop, looking directly at him.  
"What...?" Lestrade began, but really couldn't find anything to follow it up with.

 

John looked down at Sherlock with wide eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" he hissed. It was bad enough one of them got caught by the police, but for Sherlock it was doubly bad; he willingly showed himself to a /human/ policeman. John wasn't sure, but that seemed like an absolutely terrible idea.

 

Sherlock ignored John's protests, continuing to address the inspector himself. "I apologize for John's behavior, he really is quite a handful. But please inspector, take a seat." Sherlock gestured to an empty seat.

 

"Um… uh…" poor Inspector Lestrade was lost for words.  
John sighed, pinching his nose between two fingers. "You might as well," he told the stunned detective. "I'll make us some tea."

 

Lestrade finally shook out of his stupor. Turning to John he demanded "Just what the hell is going on here?"

 

"It's, well… it's really quite complicated." The doctor hardly knew if he understood it himself. Reaching into the cupboard he pulled out some cups and tea bags. "Sherlock could probably explain it better, it's his theory after all."

 

"Quite." Sherlock acknowledged graciously as the inspector finally took a seat.   
The tiny man leaned casually against the upturned laptop monitor, projecting an air of bored confidence quite contrary to the turmoil he was experiencing inside.   
"Basically, it comes down to this. Four murders, each via poison, each designed to look like a suicide, each providing your staff with no solid leads to follow. In short, you're stuck, and I would like to offer my services."

 

Lestrade could hardly believe his ears; and he certainly couldn't believe his eyes. "Sorry, first things first- who the hell are you? /What/ the hell are you?"A miniature man talking to him about a murder case… he was going insane.

 

The minuscule man rolled his eyes back, shaking his head in frustration. "Sherlock Holmes. I'm a man of course, what do I look like?"

 

"Well… honestly I'm not sure," Lestrade admitted, sitting back in the chair. He accepted a cup of tea from John, if only for something normal to hold on to. "Have you always been this small?"

 

“Yes. And shall we get this out of the way? Yes I am human in all respects but size, and yes I am the only person of the like. Moving on." Sherlock stated impatiently.

 

John glanced over at Sherlock when he lied about being the only one, but just sipped his tea quietly. The inspector, of course, didn't notice. He was still attempting to reassert his notion of reality. "And… you think these suicides aren't suicide?" he said, deciding to shove the small problem of sanity aside and hold the conversation the tiny man (Sherlock, he reminded himself) wanted to have. "That they're the work of what, some serial killer?"

 

Sherlock had been about to bight out a comment about how obvious it was that the killings were murders. The words were literally in his mouth, but he remembered at the last second that he wasn't talking to John here, and in fact, if he wanted the inspector to listen to him, (and hopefully spare John a charge of tampering with a crime scene) he would have to try a little diplomacy.   
He hated diplomacy. Diplomacy was boring. 

"I'm sure of it, inspector." He said, sounding as reasonable as he could. "The circumstances of each incident are identical. Each of them except for the last, of course, where the victim took pains to leave a note. Something none of the others had a chance to do."

 

The inspector thought this through. It was true, the message was baffling. The suicides were definitely linked as well, something that was stumping his team and making press releases intensely difficult. "Alright, say they are killings," Lestrade said, deciding to give Sherlock a chance. "Who is doing it? Why? And what on earth could that note possibly mean?"

 

What could the note mean? What /else/ could it mean!  
"The victim was spelling out the name Rachel,” he explained with a patience he was not feeling. "My working theory is that it's a password to her phone. The one which wasn't either on her person or in her luggage."

 

Lestrade furrowed his brow. "How do you know it wasn't in her… never mind, I don't want to know. So we have her password, what use is that?" He wasn't following; the facts Sherlock was proposing he could agree with, but he still wasn't entirely sure if any of it was actually useful.

 

"What u-" he began, but stopped himself before he accidentally caused a scene.   
"Jennifer Wilson was a working woman, and she traveled often for said work. She didn’t have a laptop with her. Her cell must be a smart phone! She wouldn't have let it out of her sight, seeing as she had both valuable documents as well as the names and numbers of her many sexual partners, which she was keeping secret from her husband."

 

"Now you're just making things up!" the inspector scoffed. He looked to John, who seemed just as confused. "There's no way you could possibly know that."

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Did they even examine the body? How could they not see it all?

"The collar of Jennifer Wilson's pink jacket was wet when I examined her, but her umbrella was dry. She had turned her collar up against the rain, but it had been too windy to use her umbrella. She'd come to London on a business trip from Cardiff, which was the only place within four hours drive from London which suffered heavy rain and wind yesterday.   
The jewelry she wore was pristine, all except the wedding ring on her left hand. It was scratched and dirty on the outside but was polished smooth on the inside from frequent removal. She was seeing other men, but didn't want her husband to know about it. A long term relationship with another man would be too risky, so the frequent removal of her ring indicates several short term flings.  
Serial adulterer. 

She'd taken the effort to write a name in the floor, her nails were torn and bloody, it /hurt/ her. It's important.

The back of her left leg was covered in small splotches of mud from the knee down, the spread indicating that she had a small rolling case with her. The phone she worked from was not on her person and not in the luggage. Perhaps she planted it in the killer’s car, or even on his person. All smart phones can be tracked from the owner’s online account, so, important? I think so."

 

The inspector's jaw nearly hit the floor; even John looked impressed. "That… how…?" Lestrade stammered. Everything Sherlock had said was backed up by evidence he himself had seen, but had dismissed as trivial. "Bloody hell, that was brilliant. So "Rachel" is her password to the online account, from which we can track the phone… and therefore the killer." He made the connections excitedly, by now fully convinced that Sherlock was correct. A breakthrough couldn't have come at a better time (or from a stranger source).

 

Sherlock smiled to himself. Brilliant? That's not what people usually said when he showed off like this, but it felt nice to hear it, even if coming from a source he wouldn't have imagined it coming from only two days ago.

 

John picked up his laptop from behind Sherlock, making sure the small man had stopped leaning on it before pulling it away. "Any idea what site we could access her phone from?" the doctor asked, already logged in and on an internet browser. Inspector Lestrade looked over at the computer with interest, thoughts of John being a criminal all but forgotten.

 

"Her email address was on her luggage tag." Sherlock explained. He gave Watson the address, jogging as best he could over to watch as the name and password were inputted. He couldn't have hid his excitement if he'd tried (which he didn't). He'd never had the chance to actually contribute to an investigation, being forced by his size to sit on the sidelines drawing his own conclusions. The fact that his deductions were being heard and put to use was almost too much.

 

The website was having difficulty loading: It seemed to be unable to get a lock on the GPS. "The phone must be blocked by something," Lestrade muttered.  
"Perhaps it's moving too fast for the program to work?" John suggested. Before anybody could respond, Lestrade's phone rang.  
He flipped it open and looked at it with a frown. "Hold on, I need to take this… Hello? Yes, Donovan, I'm at the house… no, I haven't arrested him yet… look, just, things are a bit different than we thought, and… I can't explain right now, Sally, I'll explain back at the Yard. Oh, and tell Anderson to stop looking into that German nonsense, the word is Rachel." With that he hung up briskly, before looking over at Sherlock and John. "Alright, let's go."

 

Sherlock looked up at the inspector sharply. "Go?" he asked indignantly. He'd taken enough of a chance just letting the inspector see him! And the only reason he'd done that at all was to prevent John from being arrested for a serious offense. He wasn't about to swan off to Scotland Yard. The phone would be located eventually, and until then he was quite content to wait in the flat, maybe have some breakfast for once.

 

Lestrade sighed. "Look, I can't just go back and tell them all this without having a source of some kind. I need you both to stay with me until the end of this, I can't have you gallivanting about some more. So it's either you come with me, or I arrest the both of you for breaking into a crime scene and take you with me anyways." He gave them each a stern look.

 

“Fine," Sherlock stated distastefully. "You can take John with you. He knows the details of the case now. He'll serve as your source. I believe at least one of your other officers is already expecting him anyway."

 

"No." Both the inspector and Sherlock looked at John in surprise. The man in question was staring indignantly at Sherlock. "You're not getting out of this, if I have to go you have to go! I've been your middleman enough in the last couple of days, thank you very much. It's your theory, not mine. You got me arrested, so I think you owe me this much at least."

 

Sherlock winced a fraction, but tried not to show it. "You've been my middle man completely of your own accord. I didn't once force you to do anything. Also, might I remind you exactly /why/ I need a middle man? I'm not about to go on display before the entire police force of London!"

 

"You won't need to," promised Lestrade, who also wanted Sherlock to come along. "I promise that the only ones who will see you will be me and my two most trusted officers."

 

“Two humans too many." Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand. "It might come as a bit of a surprise to you but I don't particularly enjoy being surrounded by gawking giants. I've done my bit. John won't be arrested because you know the truth, Inspector. There is no reason for me to accompany you."

 

"It'll just be me then," Lestrade compromised. "I just need to have your statement on record. After that I can tell my team that John was the source or what-have-you, and you won't need to talk to them at all." It sounded pretty fair to both the humans in the room.

 

Sherlock was not usually one to back down, but he could see the slow burning anger in John was reaching a peak, and the inspector did have a point. Still... it was a sad truth (though one he'd never admit to) that the idea of more and more humans being aware of him did terrify him, on a basic but powerful level.

He looked at John and the inspector in turn, his expression never more serious. "If you break your word on this, neither of you will see me again. I guarantee it." It was as much a silent plea for Watson’s protection as a threat.

 

John sighed in relief; he would never admit it, but he felt much more comfortable with Sherlock around. "We swear," the doctor promised. "Now, can we go?" He offered Sherlock his hand with an inviting smile.

 

He didn't want the others to know how frightening he found the prospect of the upcoming trip, so he marched stiffly over to John's hand, sitting pointedly, waiting for the man to transfer him to his pocket. The skin around his eyes and mouth was pulled tight, a subconscious sign of his displeasure.

 

John knew that Sherlock wasn't happy with the idea, but honestly he wasn't very happy either; and with the detective inspector there, did they really have a choice? He carefully allowed Sherlock to slip into the inside pocket of his jacket, which he noticed the inspector was watching curiously. Zipping it up halfway for stability, John turned to the inspector and said, "We're ready." Lestrade nodded and they left the flat. After assuring Mrs. Hudson that he wasn't being arrested, it was just a misunderstanding and yes, he would be returning to the flat, John exited the building and followed the inspector to his car.

 

It was a little strange, but while investigating with John, Sherlock hadn't felt the lack of control that he was experiencing now. Even though he'd left the flat with him, taken a cab and even gone to a bistro (albeit briefly), he'd known it was just going to be the two of them, and after John had saved his life, he felt he could trust the man.   
Even revealing himself to Lestrade, while nerve wracking, had been manageable, seeing as it had been in the familiar setting of his flat. Now, as John explained things to Mrs. Hudson as best he could, and followed the police inspector outside, he couldn't help feeling his liberty slipping away.

 

The three of them were practically silent on the drive to Scotland Yard. John felt a bit nervous; after all, he still wasn't sure if he was going to be charged for the crime scene or not. At least Sherlock seemed to be as uncomfortable as he was- that made two of them. Even the cool demeanor of the inspector seemed underlain by a sort of insecurity, probably a remnant of the shock from finding out Sherlock existed. Overall, it was a very uncomfortable car ride, and all the passengers were glad when they finally pulled up next to the tall glass building.

 

Sherlock grunted when John exited the car. His leg had been unintentionally pinched between the fabric and the man’s chest by the motion. Well, at least this meant they were where they needed to be. Sherlock was anxious to conclude this little excursion as quickly as possible.

 

"This won't take long, will it?" John asked the inspector. The faster they were back safe in the flat, the better.  
"Not at all," replied Lestrade. "We just need to-"  
"Sir!" a female voice interrupted him. The two men looked over to see a tall, curly-haired woman tapping her foot impatiently. John recognized her as the one who had been with Lestrade at the crime scene. Standing next to her was a tall man with a long, sallow face who looked equally dissatisfied. She looked between the two with a mix of irritation and confusion. "What's going on? That's the man who broke into our crime scene, right?"

 

Neither Donovan or Anderson were particularly pleased with what little they'd heard from their boss after he'd left to arrest John Watson. When he'd been gone longer than expected, Donovan had called his mobile, only to be told that not only was the man not under arrest, but that they should stop investigating what few leads they had.

The man looked a bit awkward, not unlike most non-policemen who entered the yard, but he wasn't in cuffs or under any special guard. It irked and confused them both.

 

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his face in exasperation. "Look," he said, "I'm going to take Mr. Watson's statement. After that I'll explain everything, I swear." Well, mostly everything. Everything except the man hiding away in the doctor's pocket. He wasn't even sure if they'd buy the story as coming from John, much less Sherlock.

 

Donovan and Anderson looked on, surprised and (in the formers case, a little hurt) at the lack of explanation. Lestrade trusted them, why was he being so cagey? They didn't have a chance to voice their concerns however, as the inspector and the (suspect? Witness? Vigilante?) walked on hurriedly.

Sherlock hoped that Inspector Lestrade would be as good as his word, and leave out the bit where he'd gotten his information from a tiny man currently residing in the pocket of his acquaintance of two days.

 

"Just in here," Lestrade directed, showing John into a private room. Carefully closing the door behind him, and knowing full well that he was going to get hell from Donovan for all of this later, he motioned for John to take a seat. "I know neither of you wants to be here, but I'll try to make it as painless as possible. If Sherlock lets me type up his statement I'll drop the charges on you for the crime scene escapade. Deal?"  
John nodded, fervently hoping that Sherlock would agree to it as well. The inspector was certainly letting them off easy; he must be desperate to solve the case. Slipping his hand in his pocket he carefully extracted Sherlock, allowing him to step off onto the table and face the detective.

 

The pocket sized man was thoroughly unimpressed by his situation, but went on to relate the details he'd observed again for the benefit of the inspector, who typed altogether too slowly for Sherlock’s taste.

 

John listened carefully as Sherlock retold his tale. The second time through he was able to actually connect his own observations to Sherlock's, and see how he drew the conclusions he did. This man, though small, had the largest intellect of anyone he had ever met. Lestrade seemed to be impressed as well, and surely he had seen a lot in his time on the force. Yes, Sherlock was unusual for more than one reason to be sure.  
"Alright, that should do it," sighed Lestrade, finishing the last sentence and sitting back in his chair. "Thanks for your cooperation. As long as you promise not to meddle with any more active crime scenes, you can go ahead home."

 

The instruction (which Sherlock chose to take as a suggestion) rankled the man more than a bit. After all, he'd just handed him several details the man had missed, along with a way of actually tracking the killer. So much for gratitude. So much for /'you're brilliant!'/  
"Of course." he said flatly.

 

Thank god," muttered John, whose relief wasn't marred by any such feelings. It looked like this entire adventure was finally coming to an end; a thought which, at an irrational part of his mind, made him a bit sad actually. "Thank you, Inspector," he said, standing up and placing a hand on the table. "Come on Sherlock, let's go."

 

No sooner had the words left Johns mouth than there came the sound of quick footsteps in the hall outside, and the door was flung open by a very intent looking Donovan.  
"Sir! Forensics found Jennifer Wilson's luggage, and..." She trailed off, catching sight of the tiny man on the table. "What, the /hell,/ is that?" she asked, eyes wide.

 

“Oh shi-," John swore, at the same time that Lestrade moaned, "Bloody hell!" The inspector turned to her with a mix of irritation and desperation. "Donovan, didn't I tell you we were to be left /alone/?" How were they going to explain this? Both Lestrade and John glanced down at Sherlock, wondering how he was going to react. He had threatened them, but then again it was not exactly their fault that the promise was broken.

 

For his part, Sherlock had gone completely still. His face was stony, and he couldn't help but stare down the woman who had burst in and ruined everything. Well, this was just perfect. Allowing contact with one human had now lead to three, and he wasn't pleased with the look the dumbfounded woman was giving him.   
In a way, Mycroft had been right when he'd given his brother the hypocritical advice to keep away from humans. Catching their attention only lead to trouble. As enjoyable as the little excursion had been yesterday, perhaps it would be prudent to pack what little he owned and find a new flat, if and when he got back to 221b.

 

"I can explain," Lestrade said slowly. John had moved in front of Sherlock a bit protectively. "John Watson you've already met. This… this is Sherlock Holmes. He, er, kind of solved our case." The inspector knew that probably wouldn't cut it with either party, but it was the best he could come up with- for introductions at least.

 

Donovan wasn't by nature a cruel or off-putting person, but the stress of the strange deaths and disastrous press conferences had gotten to her, to say nothing of the mild guilt over her affair with Anderson.  
"/He/ solved our case?" She gestured towards the table, where even now John was obstructing her view of the impossible man. "Is /he/ even human? Are we seriously listening to a civilian who was caught in the middle of tampering with an active crime scene and his little... I dunno, pet or something now?"

 

John decided he didn't like her- at all. "He's not my pet," the doctor practically growled at the sergeant.   
"And you need to hear what he found out," Lestrade added. "There are details we missed, Donovan, important ones. Thanks to Mr. Holmes we can find the killer."

 

Well, that was enough as far as pleasantries went. "John," Sherlock barked, hating every second of his humiliation. "I do believe we were leaving."

 

Right," John agreed, whirling around and wasting no time in ferrying Sherlock to his pocket. With a cool nod to the Inspector and a glare at Donovan he strode out of the room, making his way alone to the front door. He pushed open the door with a bit more force than was needed, walking to the edge of the sidewalk and raising an arm to hail a cab.

 

Sherlock was already in the process of planning his exit of 221b. What time would be best to sneak back off to his own flat, where he would go next, how he would get there, how best to avoid Mycroft now he'd made such a huge blunder. He barely noticed when John entered the cab, giving instruction to head back to 221b Baker Street.

 

The ride back to Baker Street was terribly silent. John knew that Sherlock was upset, and fretted that he would make good on his threat to leave. It had only been two days, but already John had come to think of Sherlock as a permanent companion. Besides, his leg wasn't fully healed yet, and he definitely shouldn't be doing strenuous activity with it. Even worse, John knew that if Sherlock truly wanted to leave, he wouldn't have it in his heart to stop him.

 

When they finally arrived at the flat, John closing and locking the door, Sherlock was eager enough to get out of his pocket. "John, it's stifling in here." he snapped, his irritation bleeding through his voice noticeably

 

"Sorry," John mumbled, inwardly wincing at Sherlock's tone. That unfortunate trip to the police station had put him in an incredibly foul mood. With more care than usual he took Sherlock out of his pocket and allowed him to hop off onto the kitchen table. With a sigh he sat heavily in his usual chair.

 

Sherlock crossed the table, taking a seat on the opposite side, not pointedly looking away from John, but assuming his usual /I'm thinking about things that are much too important for you/ position. He didn't say anything to John. As far as he was concerned, their partnership was at an end, and while it had been an interesting one, there was nothing left to be said between them.

 

"Sherlock," John said quietly after a while, feeling that something needed to be said. When there was no reply he sighed, and added what he really thought. "Please don't leave." He closed his eyes, wanted Sherlock to say he wouldn't but knowing he would be lucky to even get an answer.

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his human companion.   
"John, you've been an excellent alley, and I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful for everything you've done. But you have to understand, to be seen by one human is risky, to be seen by two, unacceptable, and three..." He sighed wearily. "I've had the chance to investigate and even solve a murder. But now I've stirred things up for the yard, it's probably time to fade back into obscurity. Besides, Mycroft will be incredibly put out that the chief inspector of Scotland yard is now aware of at least /my/ existence, if not that of all of us."

 

It made perfect sense, John just didn't want it to. "I… I understand," he said. "If there's anything I can do to help, I-" He was interrupted by a loud beep from his open laptop. The GPS tracer had located the pink lady's phone. John looked over at it, mouth turning to a confused frown. "It says the phone is here. On Baker Street."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aug! I'm really sorry about the late update!   
> I've been busy, but not enough so to excuse my being so freaking behind on my updates. OTL
> 
> I'll upload the next chapter tomorrow to make up for it. ;;>.>


	7. Cab for Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock’s head snapped up, all thoughts of leaving suddenly gone from his mind. "What?" He asked sharply. He jumped up, ignoring the pain in his leg and hobbled quickly over to the laptop. Indeed, the page now displayed a map with an orange triangle, pointing directly to 221b Baker Street. Sherlock’s mind began to race. He barely noticed when John's phone vibrated.

000

Who could that possibly be? The only people who had his number were Harry and Sherlock; Sherlock was here, and Harry certainly never texted him. The message itself was rather curious:

Cab for Sherlock Holmes.

000

"What does it say?" Sherlock demanded, still staring at the screen. He was sure the text was not from a friend.

000

"It says there's a cab waiting outside… for you, Sherlock," John solemnly replied. He turned the phone around to show Sherlock the text.

000

Sherlock stared at the phone. It was very seldom he was genuinely taken by surprise, but the fact of his name staring back at him in black block text, staggered him.   
How? How would the killer know /his/ name?   
Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

"John dear, you're cabs here." The landlady called.

000

"One moment!" he called back to her. "Sherlock, who is in the cab outside?" The doctor stuck his phone back in his pocket, looking at Sherlock with concern.

000

Sherlock couldn't answer Johns question directly. Instead, he suddenly started talking to himself in a rapid-fire monologue.   
"Of course, oh that's brilliant, of /course!/ All of the victims were looking for a cab when they were abducted! The first was lost and needed to make it to a meeting on time, the second was caught out in a heavy downpour, the third had her keys confiscated by her coworkers, and the last was also on her way to a meeting, not having brought her own car she was forced to take a cab!" Sherlock’s eyes were nearly gleaming as the pieces of the puzzle came together, finally beginning to show the face of the killer. Of course, none of that answered the question of how the man knew his name.

000

John fought to keep up with the information Sherlock was pouring out. "Wait, so you mean there is a /serial killer/ outside our flat?" he asked in alarm, before adding incredulously, "And he came in a /cab/?"

000

"/Yes!/ Of course a cab!" Sherlock snapped, nearly vibrating with excitement. "Weren't you listening? That's how he /does/ it! Who do humans trust without knowing them? Who hunts in a crowd? It's the Cab driver John!" he shouted with obscene glee.

000

"Okay, but that still doesn't explain what he's doing at Baker Street," the doctor pointed out with barely concealed agitation. "Or why he knows your name."

000

Actually, the fact that he knew Sherlock’s name probably did explain why he was at Baker Street, Sherlock thought.   
The knocking came again. This time the land lady sounded a bit more agitated. 

"Mr. Watson, your cab drivers getting a bit impatient."

00

"Just a moment, Mrs. Hudson!" John yelled again, a bit more irritably. He turned back to the small man on the table with a scowl. "Sherlock, there is a murderer waiting for us outside. What are we going to do?"

000

"Contact Lestrade, obviously." Sherlock stated blankly. "After our little run in today he won't disbelieve you. And then we go catch our cab."

000

John nodded, knowing a sound plan when he heard one. Standing up he took out his phone and dialed Scotland Yard. Moving to the living room he took a look out the window. "Yes… hello? I need to talk to Inspector Lestrade please. No, it's important…"

000

Sherlock was contemplating trying to jump to the floor himself, John's call with the inspector taking far too long in his view, when finally the man closed his phone. Lestrade duly informed of the plan. "Come on John!" Sherlock called impatiently. "Our killer cabbie isn't going to wait around forever!"

000

John read Sherlock's eager anticipation in a moment, making his face fall. "You can't be serious," he said, though it was more of a complaint than a question. Sherlock's mind had obviously been made up. Inwardly kicking himself, he walked back to the table and held out a hand. "Alright, come on."

000

The speed at which Sherlock situated himself in the humans hand was a stark contrast to the way he'd been feeling only a few minutes ago. Every thought of leaving, of abandoning John and the case, had completely evaporated.

000

Slipping Sherlock in his pocket in a way which was becoming much too familiar, John opened the door on a startled Mrs. Hudson and walked down to the front door. A cab was waiting on the sidewalk. The cabbie was waiting in front of it. He was an older man, in shabby clothes; not the type to look like a serial killer. Then again, few ever did. There was a pink Smartphone in his hand.

000

Through the fabric of John pocket, with which Sherlock was becoming far to familiar, the tiny man heard the killer speak for the first time.  
"Cab for Sherlock Holmes."  
He sounded older, perhaps in his late fifties. Sherlock wished he could actually see the man.

000

By now John had stopped feeling surprised when others knew impossible things. "Right, of course," he said coolly. The cabby, whose hand was cradling a gun-shaped bulge in his pocket, gestured towards the vehicle behind him.   
"Shall we take a ride?" the serial killer offered.

000

Sherlock nudged John with his good foot, hoping that he would get the message. Lestrade knew how to track the phone now. The best they could do was stay with the killer until the police arrived. Besides, he was anxious to find out how this man knew about him.

000

"Why not?" John replied with a tight smile, though his feelings were quite the opposite. The cabbie walked around to get in the driver's side while John opened the door and slid carefully in the backseat. With any luck Lestrade would find them soon enough; otherwise, he and Sherlock were going to have to do some quick thinking.

000

The cab pulled away from the curb, joining traffic. As he drove, the cabby looked in the rear view mirror, sizing up the man in the back seat.  
"I gotta say Mr. Holmes, you're not half like I imagined." He said frankly. "But then, you never can tell by lookin' at people. I mean, I'm livin' proof, ain't I?"

000

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes," John protested, caught a bit off guard by the statement. He had assumed that since the killer knew about Sherlock, he… /knew/ about Sherlock.

000

This time Sherlock kicked John much more forcefully. He was beginning to piece things together now. The fact that the man knew his name but not what he looked like, how he could easily have mistaken John for him.   
For his part, the Cabbie chuckled. "Course yer not. You just happened to sneak into an active crime scene and uncover the truth about four murders in one day, when the police couldn't do it in months. I gotta say, I didn't fink you'd cotton on so quick though. You're every bit as clever as you say you are."

000

 

"Right…" John said slowly, going along with it. The man seemed absolutely convinced that he was Sherlock Holmes, for whatever reason. He felt Sherlock kick him in the chest, but he didn't know what he wanted him to do. There was no way to talk to him without exposing the fact that he was there.

000

"What'd you find when you looked at the last body?" The cabbie asked. "Purely outta professional curiosity. I'd love to know how you got it all so fast."

000

Well, he was already here… why the hell not. "The splash marks on the back of her leg suggested a suitcase," John said, reciting what he remembered of Sherlock's deductions. "However, the suitcase was missing- you still had it. That meant she was driven to her location." The doctor kept going, a bit proud of how well he was emulating Sherlock's train of thought. He continued confidently, "The deaths were not suicides, obviously. The same poison taken the same way, and all the victims in places they had no reason to be suggests planning. Thus, a serial killer with a vehicle, a form of transportation instantly trusted by every victim- a cab."

000

At first, Sherlock was a little offended at the pilfering of his deductions, but he remembered of course that John was now playing the role of Sherlock Holmes, and so he contented himself with listening, just in case John repeated something incorrectly and made him look a fool.  
The cabbie smiled. "S'right. Gotta say it was a real surprise finding that case still in my cab. There's just one fing though... I never kill em."

000

"Oh?" John asked, attempting to sound as aloof as Sherlock usually did. "Pray tell."

000

The cabbie took a left, driving them further and further away from the populated streets of London. "I just talked to em, and then they killed 'emselves."  
Now Sherlock was too intrigued to sit still. He felt John stiffen when he moved, but pushed on regardless. He managed a small peek into the front seat. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but the cab he worked in every day had its own stories to tell. His chance to observe was very informative, if short lived, for John hastily pushed him back down into his breast pocket. 

000

The cab pulled up to a set of twin buildings. John got out and looked up at them curiously. "Where are we?" he pondered. Unlike Sherlock, he didn't have the entire city memorized.

000

"Dun't matter." The cabbie said. "S' unlocked. Night cleaners are in. That's the fing about being a cab driver. Y'always know a quiet place for a murder."

000

"I'm surprised more of you don't branch out," John glibly replied. Most would have panicked at following a serial killer into an empty building, but not John; the adrenaline coursing through his veins kept him calm and steady.

000

The cabbie grinned. Now he was seeing Sherlock Holmes in the man before him. "Shall we go inside then?" He asked, gesturing to the building with a jerk of his head.

000

"After you." John put a hand out to allow the killer to go first. They walked into the building, making their way to an empty, if lit, classroom on the second floor. They pulled out chairs on opposite sides of one of the long tables and sat down tersely.

000

After they had each taken their seats, the Cabbie just seemed to look at John, both seeming amused and as if he were trying to puzzle something out.   
"Sherlock Holmes. I was warned about you. I've been on your website too. Brilliant stuff. Loved it. Wasn't sure if I'd get to see you in action though. S'been a treat."

000

John’s brow furrowed. "Who warned you about me?" he queried. He also wondered about Sherlock having a website, but figured that was a less pressing matter (and one he could ask the man himself later).

000

"Someone out there who's noticed. You've got yourself a fan Mr. Holmes."

000

The doctor's lips quirked up into a smile. "Who would be a fan of me?" By which he meant who on earth would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes? The man knew all of five people it seemed, and at least two of those were enemies.

000

The cracked smile returned to the cabbies lips. "Yer too modest Mr. Holmes. The science of deduction? All that cleverness put on display for the world to see? I think my sponsor wanted to see for hisself how good you are." He leaned forward. "And you haven't disappointed 'im."

000

The former army doctor appraised the man in front of him; he didn't seem particularly threatening, a fact which irked him in regards to the case. So he figured he would go ahead and ask, "I hope I haven't disappointed you. Still, there's one thing I haven't figured out- how do you make the victims take the poison themselves?"

000

The man leaned back in his seat, observing Watson critically. "Simple Mr. Holmes. We played a little game." He reached into his coat pocket and removed two small, identical containers. He placed them on the table. Each had a pill. "One of the pills is good, the other bad. Which one?"

000

That was about as far as John could go. How could he possibly know which pill was the good one and which the bad? "Er…" John mumbled, his facade as Sherlock cracking. At the last minute he thought of something else. "I don't have to pick!" he said, a bit too hastily. "I could just walk out right now without playing your game."

000

“You could do that. But you'll never know." he grinned again. "Never know if y' could'a beaten me at my own game. It's chess Mr. Holmes." He pushed one of the bottles towards John.

000

John certainly wasn't going to play a "game" with a serial killer. "I think I can live with that," he said with a tight smile. Lestrade would be here soon enough, and there was no need to be reckless. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, after all; he wouldn't lose sleep over a game of chess.  
He attempted to move his chair back to get up and leave. The cabbie, however, had other plans.

000

He sighed, obviously disappointed in the master of deduction. He'd really expected more from him. The Cabbie reached into his jacket and removed a gun, pointing it at the man across the table. "And here I'd had such high hopes for you."  
Sherlock had listened to the whole exchange so far with varying levels of interest, annoyance, excitement and curiosity, but now, he suddenly felt John go completely rigid. It wasn't a huge leap for him to figure out what had just happened...

000

The former soldier froze as the weapon was pointed at him, sitting back down with care. "Alright," he said slowly and quietly, raising his hands defensively. "I'm not going anywhere."

000

"Sorry ‘bout the Gun. I realize it's a bit inelegant." The cabbie said, watching as John sat down again. He indicated the two bottles with a nod of his head. "So, basically it boils down to this. You could take the 50-50 chance or I can shoot you in the head. Funny enough, no one's ever gone for that option. Oh and by the way, did I explain the best bit?" He took Johns blank expression as a negative.   
"Whichever pill you take, I take the other... Time to play."

"Well, I think this has gone on long enough."

The cabbie's smile dropped, surprised by the new voice. Not nearly as surprised as he would soon be though.


	8. The game

John glanced down at his chest in surprise. Sherlock had clambered up to the top of the pocket and was looking at him with determination. With a nod the doctor reached in and brought him out, setting him on the table before the cabbie. Their lives were in Sherlock's hands now.  
The killer looked at Sherlock with unmasked shock. "Bloody 'ell," he muttered to himself, unable to believe his eyes. For once, the events unfolding were completely unexpected.

Sherlock gave the man a piercing once-over, noting every detail about him. "I can see you've worked it out already, but for the sake of clarity yes, /I/ am Sherlock Holmes. This man is simply my flatmate. So, you want to play a game? Let's play a game. John, however, will wait outside."

"No," John and the cabbie said at the same time. "I'm not leaving you," the doctor said stubbornly, while the killer said, "We'll 'ave none of that. No, your flatmate is going to stay right where he is." The gun in the cabbie's hands remained pointed steadily at John. "And you," he said, looking down at Sherlock, "must now decide. Which pill did I give your friend 'ere? The good bottle or the bad bottle?"

Sherlock sighed, unimpressed. "I've been listening you know, to you going on about your clever little chess game. But the fact remains, there's nothing to play. It's a 50-50 chance. No skill, no intellect, no work required, I can't be bothered to play a game of chance."

"You're not playing the numbers, Mr. Holmes, you're playing me," the cabbie said intently, leaning in over the edge of the table. "Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?" His eyes shone with anticipation. Here was the man he had been told about.

"It's still just chance." Sherlock shot back.

“It's genius!" the cabbie countered. "I know how people think. I know how people think I think. It's all like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid, even you Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. "So. You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why? You mentioned a sponsor, but you'll not have need for money for much longer. Your clothes. Recently laundered, but everything you’re wearing is at least… three years old? Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What’s that about? Ah… Of course. Three years ago, that’s when you found out wasn’t it. Found out you were a dead man walking.

The cabbie simply smiled. "I've /outlived/ four people. That's about as much fun as you can have on an aneurism," he said, tapping a finger to the side of his head.

“Oh but it's about much more than that." Sherlock asserted, smiling in an unhappy way. "You wouldn't need a sponsor if it were simply a personal game. There’s shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody’s pointed it out to you. Traces of where it’s happened before, so obviously you live on your own, there’s no one to tell you. But in the cab, you keep a photograph of children. The children’s mother’s been cut out of the picture. If she died, she’d still be there. Photograph’s old, but the frame’s new. You think of your children but you don’t get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts. Is that what it's all about? A dying fathers last gift to his children?"

The cabbie was secretly pleased; finally, an intellect to rival his own! "I've got a sponsor," he said pleasantly. "For every person I kill, money goes to my kids. Not as bad as you thought, is it?" John thought it was still pretty bad.

"Yes, which does beg the question, who would sponsor a serial killer?" The question had been gnawing at him, ever since he'd heard the man mention his fan.

"Who would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?" the cabbie responded cryptically. "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder, you know. There are others out there."

"And your sponsor is one of these. Obviously quite rich, to sponsor a killer for fun. One man? Or an organization?" He asked.

He shook his head. "Just a name. A name that no one says. And I'm not going to say it either." He leaned back and pointed the gun at John once again. "Enough chatter. Time to choose."

"Ah, yes." Sherlock turned back to the bottles. "So, to clarify, whatever I choose John suffers the consequences. I can either take a 50-50 chance by choosing one of the bottles, or I could simply have you shoot him in the head, is that about the size of it?" He glanced back at the cabbie, brimming with cool confidence.

"That's the long and short of it," the killer said with matching assurance. "Now, what will it be?"  
John wasn't sure he liked this game. It seemed a bit unfair that he was currently the only one in danger, despite the fact that he wasn't even playing. Still, he trusted Sherlock to get them out alive.

Sherlock looked the cabbie dead in the eye, his lips quirked up into the ghost of a smile. "I'll have the gun please."

"What?" John exclaimed, looking aghast at Sherlock. Did he just tell a serial killer to shoot his flatmate in the head? He felt… a bit betrayed to be honest.  
The cabbie's confident smile turned to a frown. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Definitely. The gun." Sherlock reasserted, ignoring John's outburst.

His finger pulled the trigger. John flinched, but the bullet never came. Instead a tiny flame popped out the end; the gun was a fake, just a fancy cigarette lighter. "It's… not real," John breathed, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. Sherlock had known, that's why he had done what he did. He could trust his new comrade after all.

"I can tell a fake gun when I see one." Sherlock said dismissively. He clapped his hands in the manner of someone who has just concluded a tedious task and is anxious to get home. "Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case. John, Shall we?"

John stood up as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The cabbie watched passively, setting the fake gun down on the table. "Just before you go, did you figure it out?" he said calmly. "Which one's the good bottle?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes again. "Of course." He spat. "Childs play."

The cabbie grinned, a look which John hoped didn't mean what he thought it meant. "Well, which one then?" he said tauntingly. "Which one would you have picked? Just so I know whether I could have beaten you." He gave Sherlock a meaningful look. "Come on! Play the game."

Sherlock, full of unjustified confidence after his intellectual victory over the killer, strode across the table, grabbing the lightweight plastic bottle closest to the cabbie, and tucking it awkwardly under one arm.

"Oh," the cabbie breathed, a smile spreading across his face. "Interesting.” There was a horrible smugness to the killer cabbies voice. Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but never got the chance, as at that moment the door practically burst off its hinges.

From the time John called to the time they got a lock on the phones position, to the mobilization of half a dozen cops and three paramedics, right up to the moment Lestrade burst into the room holding his two odd acquaintances and (apparently) the serial killer, he'd been doubted and harangued for so many details he couldn't give, that he was beginning to wonder if he really /did/ know what he was doing here.   
But now, there he was. An unassuming man, with two very familiar pill bottles out on the table in front of him. He'd been about to shout something like 'freeze' or 'you're under arrest,' but he didn't have the chance.

With a quicker motion than anybody could have expected the cabbie reached out and snatched Sherlock up into both hands. He held them tightly together as John leapt towards him, increasing the pressure until the doctor backed away slowly. "Let me go, or Mr. Holmes here dies," he threatened.  
John's mind was racing. They should have been more careful; it was all too easy to forget how fragile of a being Sherlock really was. Now he was in the hands of a murderer, quite literally.

Sherlock tried to gasp, but the pressure on his chest was too great. He'd been so caught up in his own cleverness that the fact that humans were such a threat to him had completely slipped his mind.   
Now he was stuck in a vice, the man’s hands squeezing just tight to render breathing difficult, blood flow impossible, and severe bruising unavoidable. The only positive about his situation was that he hadn’t felt any of his bones crack yet. 

Lestrade pulled out his gun, aiming it at the murderer. "Don't make any stupid mistakes, mate." He warned. "The building is surrounded. You're not going anywhere. But I promise you, if you kill mister Holmes, I will drop you right here."   
It wasn't exactly correct police procedure, but then this wasn't exactly an ordinary arrest.

The killer smirked confidently. "You won't shoot me," he said in a self-assured tone. "Not while I 'ave Mr. Holmes 'ere at such a disadvantage."  
John's entire body was tensed, ready to leap into action. He looked over at Lestrade, trying to read his intentions.

Though the look on the detective inspectors face was still as focused and uncompromising as ever, he was beginning to sweat. "He doesn't exactly make for a good human shield though now does he?" Lestrade shot back. "You put him down, you walk out of here alive. That's the only offer I'm making."

Well, then," said the cabbie with a look of false remorse. "I suppose you should say goodbye to Mr. Holmes."

The pressure increased, blood roared in his ears, the last of his breath was forced out in one strangled cry of pain. And then there was a bang, a loosening of the immense pressure, and the feeling of falling.   
Sherlock was still clutched in the hands of the killer, but feebly so, and was dragged down with him as the body fell to the floor.

"Sherlock!" John yelled as Lestrade lowered the smoking gun. He ran to the dying man, forcing open his shaking fingers. Sherlock was inside, bruised but alive. John let out an audible sigh of relief.  
Blood pooled around the hole in the cabbie's chest. His breaths became hurried and shallow through his flabby lips, his eyes dimming even as they focused on the tiny man in his hands.

Sherlock used what strength he had to push John's hands away. Instead, he limped angrily up the killer’s chest, staring him in his pain-addled eyes. "Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" He hissed, unable to manage much else until he got his breath back.

The cabbie didn't say anything, just stared at him. He wouldn't let Sherlock win, not this.  
"Sherlock, he's dying," John said quietly, wanting to pull his friend away but afraid to touch him. After the experience he just had Sherlock certainly wouldn't want that form of human interaction.

"Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor, who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan. I want a name." He growled. Any sense of fun he might have gotten from catching the killer in the first place had completely left him when the man had grabbed him.

The dying man shook his head weakly, refusing to tell. Whoever this "sponsor" was, he had an incredible power over the man.

"You’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you." Sherlock snarled. Before either John or Lestrade could react, the tiny man had plunged his arm straight into the gaping bullet wound. He grasped, pulled and scratched. "Give me… a name."

The cabbie gasped in pain, his pack arching slightly off the floor. "M… Moriarty!" he moaned, before slumping back to the ground. His eyes filmed over and his breath stopped; he was dead.  
"For god's sake, Sherlock!" John cried, throwing caution to the wind and taking him off of the dead man's chest. He knew his flatmate could be cold, but so cruel as to harm a dying man? Even if he was a serial killer, the intensity in Sherlock's actions had worried him.

John wasn't the only one taken aback by the tiny mans actions. Lestrade stood aghast, partly because of what Sherlock had done, but mostly because the overheard snatches about Sherlock having a /fan/ (how exactly does I tiny man who knows all of three people have a /fan?/). Apparently said fan (Moriarty?) had something to do with the killings.   
Suddenly there was the sound of pounding footsteps in the hall outside. Donovan entered first, gun drawn, but stopped short when she saw the killer had already been shot.

John stood up, Sherlock still in his hands. He didn't particularly like Donovan, but given the circumstances felt glad she had believed them enough to come. Not that there was much for her to do: the killer was dead, shot in self (well, sort of) defense by a Scotland Yard inspector. The case was over and done with.

Sherlock for his part was /not/ comfortable being held at the moment. His chest still screamed in pain, his head was reeling, and, if he was not mistaken which of course he wasn't, the room would soon be full of latecomers to the police raid.  
"John. Pocket. Now." He hissed, voice still raw and breath still ragged.

Without a word John slipped the abused, blood-covered detective into his jacket pocket. Donovan had ceased paying either of them any attention, and was busy leveling with Lestrade.  
"We were all in the other building," she explained hastily, face flushed from exertion. "The others are on their way, though I don't know how we're going to explain all this to them." She gave Lestrade a cross look, as if the entire ordeal were his fault.

The inspector sighed, coming down from his adrenaline high. "There's not much to tell anyway. This man was about to kill... /John,/" he looked at Watson for confirmation that he was alright standing in for Sherlock. Again. "He knew I was armed, he resisted arrest, and had a hostage."

Fully understanding the look Lestrade gave him John nodded solemnly; he'd already been Sherlock for a night, what was two minutes more? Donovan seemed to find that an acceptable answer, as she turned and began spreading the information amongst the small police force gathered just outside the classroom door.

"Look, /are/ you alright?" Lestrade asked John, genuinely concerned. "And for that matter, is Sherlock? I don't know if any of the paramedics here will know how to treat him if he's not."

"I'm fine," John assured the inspector. "Sherlock seems pretty beat up, and I'm sure his leg has only gotten worse, but once I get home I can treat him. I'm a doctor by training." He appreciated Lestrade's concern; the inspector had turned out to be a much more human (and much more open-minded) man than he had expected. John knew that on some deep, deep level Sherlock appreciated it as well.

Battered as he was, most of what transpired next was a blur to Sherlock. His abused body sank into the hammock like crease of his flatmate’s warm jacket pocket, and though he hated to admit it, he felt... safe, now. He knew that John would take care not to expose or hurt him, and after the harrowing events of the day, he appreciated that, deeply, in his way.

John made it back outside, where the previously empty parking lot was filled with police cars and an ambulance. Red and blue lights danced on the pavement. An EMT walked by and draped a pink blanket around John's shoulders before moving on. "What is this?" the doctor indignantly asked Lestrade, who had followed him out.

"Oh that, yeah, it's for shock." the inspector explained distractedly. After everything that had happened that day, he almost felt like he should have one too.

"But I'm not in shock!" John protested, shrugging off the hideous thing and tossing it through the open window of a nearby police car. "What I am is exhausted. If it's alright with you, inspector, Sherlock and I will be going home now."

He could sympathize with that. "Alright, that's not a problem. But John," he reached out to stop the man before to could walk any further ahead. "I will need to talk to you tomorrow. /Both/ of you." There was just a hint of a question in there. He knew that the last time he and Sherlock Holmes had parted ways, the man had been furious, and had been fully intending to disappear from both his and John’s life. Would he be around tomorrow? If he was, would he ever consent to talking case matters with him again?

The same thoughts were running through John's head. "I'll try, but I can't make any promises," he quietly responded. With a strained smile and a respectful nod he detached himself from the inspector and walked underneath the crime scene tape that had been set up.


	9. Aftermath

After the abuse his body had gone through, and the adrenaline crash that had followed, it wasn’t a surprise that he managed to nod off in the warm, now familiar pocket during the long ride back to the flat. And so it came as a bit of a surprise when he felt the pocket being opened, and realized that they were back at 221b. 

After everything that had happened, John thought it prudent to walk home instead of hailing a cab. Though it took a while they made it home without incident, and he made his way gratefully up the stairs to the flat he now called home.  
As gently as he could John set the bruised form of Sherlock down on the kitchen table. Reaching for the all-too-familiar first aid kit he began examining the condition his flatmate was in. Dark, nasty bruises were blooming on practically every inch of his body and one arm from the elbow down was covered in the cabbie's blood. The bandages on his injured leg had mostly fallen off, exposing the still raw skin underneath. Overall, Sherlock was in pretty bad shape.

For once Sherlock didn’t complain when John set about attending to his injuries. He simply let the doctor do his work. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to sleep on a real bed, or cushion, or something that wasn’t the hard wooden table, and actually recover. The idea of eating crossed his mind, but he knew he’d be hard pressed to keep anything down. 

John applied salves and bandages as needed in a thoughtful, tired silence. It had been a very long day after all, full of near-death experiences, and he still didn't know how Sherlock felt about him. Earlier he had been ready to up and leave, but after all this surely something had changed. He had trusted John to get him home and take care of him, let him pick him up even after such a harrowing experience with the cabbie. That had to mean something, didn't it?

Those same thoughts had tried to cross Sherlock's mind as well, but he decided that no matter what decision he made in the long run, there was no point in trying to leave tonight. After nearly an hour of silence, Sherlock finally spoke up.   
"I don't suppose I could have the use of a pillow?"

"Of course," John said quietly. He had just the one on his bed but he'd be damned if Sherlock wasn't deserving of it. With a sigh he began putting all the medical supplies back where they belonged.

He didn't watch, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. Mostly about his alleged fan.   
He'd kept the website up as a diversion. There wasn't a lot to occupy his mind while living in a deserted flat with no one but Mrs. Hudson around to borrow from. She did not provide him with much of a challenge, seeing as even if he did carelessly allow himself to be glimpsed, she'd unfailingly dismiss him as a mouse, or even a figment of her imagination.   
The website had allowed him some small amount of interaction with others, though most of those who did stumble across his page seemed horribly dull.   
He'd assumed outright that keeping a webpage would possibly put him in danger, though he took pains to stay completely anonymous. He hadn't considered the possibility that his musings would directly lead to the deaths of four people.

After a moment John piped up again. "So who's Moriarty?" he asked in a solemn voice. The name didn't sound familiar to him at all, though he was wondering if it was another "friend" of Sherlock's, like the tiny man that had abducted him the night before.

Sherlock shook his head distractedly. "No idea." he admitted, grudgingly. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "But I think I'd like to find out."

John rubbed his face tiredly; he, for one, had no inclination at the moment to go chasing after a serial killer's sponsor. "I'm exhausted," he announced, standing up with a yawn. He held out a hand towards Sherlock. "Need a lift?

Sherlock looked up, surprised. "A lift where?" He thought John was going to fetch a pillow for him.

"The bed," John replied casually. "You need a pillow and that's where it is."

He blinked, surprised. "Then bring it here. I can still sleep on the table, I don't need a full sized /bed./"

"Sherlock, you need a decent night's sleep," John argued. "If you stay out here, pillow or no pillow, the sun is going to wake you up early regardless. Just… let me actually help you for once."

"John," Sherlock sighed, "I am letting you help. You've helped me more than you seem to realize. But I don't need to be babied. A pillow will suffice."

"I'm only giving it to you if you agree to at least sleep in the room with me," John countered. Sherlock did need the rest, and honestly John wanted to be able to keep an eye on him.

Sherlock thought about arguing further, but honestly, this was probably the best offer he was going to get. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, fine. But if I find out you snore, I'll make the trip back to my own flat." he grumbled.

John sighed and smiled with relief. "Fair enough," replied the doctor. He didn't snore, and he highly doubted that Sherlock could physically make his way anywhere (though the man's determination had proven to be formidable).

When John laid his hand flat on the table, Sherlock climbed to his feet, more than a little unstable as he trudged over to it. When he sat down he nearly collapsed, but managed to stay sitting up, if just barely.

The larger man winced as Sherlock almost fell over; any human would certainly have been hospitalized by now, though John was sure that even if human sized Sherlock would refuse to be carried off in an ambulance. Walking deliberately towards the bedroom John set Sherlock down on the pillow at the head of the bed.

Sherlock waited somewhat impatiently for John to move the pillow. He took a moment to look around the room, spotted something, and smiled ruefully. "I never did ask by the way, how is your leg feeling? You've done a lot of running around in the last two days."

"Hm?" John hummed, a bit surprised by the question. It was quite honestly the first time in days that he had thought about it. "…fine, actually." He hadn't used his cane since he found Sherlock behind the heater. Seems the limp had been psychosomatic after all.  
Careful not to jostle Sherlock, he picked up the pillow and placed it on the nightstand next to the bed. It just didn't seem right to put it on the floor, and this way he could see Sherlock more easily (not to mention it would dissuade the small man from any ridiculous notions like walking back to his own flat, wherever that was).

Sherlock tried to keep his mind alert, tried to keep pondering the existence of his fan, but when the pillow had been situated, John prepared to sleep (looking rather uncomfortable without a pillow), and the light had been turned out, it was a lost battle.   
He was asleep in minutes. Though that was not to say the thought of Moriarty left his mind.   
He coasted in and out of several intense dreams, usually centered around his confrontation with the Cabbie. None of them were particularly pleasant.   
Most involved him being wrong, making a mistake in his deductions, and being forced to watch John suffer the consequences.   
Sometimes, John took the place of the killer, which was very disconcerting. But those dreams always seemed to fall apart, as if even his roiling subconscious couldn't countenance the idea of John being a criminal mastermind.   
There would always be someone else, an indistinct figure, and somehow, though when awake he couldn't have explained how, he'd /known/ that John was innocent, and the shadow figure was to blame for whatever imagined cruelty Sherlock had been forced to suffer.  
It was a very long, /very/ upsetting night.

After making sure Sherlock was situated John turned out the light, too tired to do anything but kick off his shoes before climbing gratefully into bed. It was a bit more uncomfortable without a pillow, but he had slept under much worse conditions during his time in the army and had no trouble falling asleep. He slept fitfully, plagued by nightmares not of the war but of the day. In them Sherlock was dying at the hands of a sneering figure, and John was powerless to stop them. Needless to say, he didn't get much true rest either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: The one where we accidentally Johnlock ammunition. :U


	10. Epilogue

Despite the disturbing nature of his dreams, for the second morning in a row Sherlock found himself having slept in much later than John. In fact, it was John who ended up waking him, almost at noon.

"Sherlock," John called, stifling a yawn. "C'mon, wake up." He gently shook the small man's shoulder with a thumb and forefinger. Sherlock looked much more fragile this way, asleep and covered in bandages. His angular face seemed more softened in sleep, less harsh.

The tiny man jerked awake, eyes wild, until he realized that it was not the murderous cabbie shaking him, but John.   
"What?" He asked, his tone unintentionally sharp.

John sighed; despite his heavy sleep, Sherlock seemed to have suffered from nightmares as well. "It's almost noon," he informed the detective. "If you don't wake up now you won't get any sleep tonight."

Sherlock sighed, letting his head fall back to the pillow. "Fine." he grunted, but didn't bother moving. There wasn't much he could do until John moved him.

John carefully picked up Sherlock, doing his best with the difficult task of not putting pressure on any sore spots. He then ferried him to the kitchen table as usual, where he had left out some tea and toast from breakfast for Sherlock. He himself had already had lunch, and sat back down in his chair to finish his own cuppa.

It had been a long time since Sherlock had last eaten, and his body had been through a lot since then. He forced himself to tuck into the breakfast John had left for him, despite his stomachs protestations. It had gone long enough without food to find the idea of getting reacquainted most unappealing. To distract himself from this, he tried to strike up conversation with his flatmate.  
"Has Lestrade called yet?”

"No, I'm sure he's still busy wrapping things up at the Yard," John replied, sipping on his mug of tea. "I expect we'll hear from him soon, though." He looked down at his flatmate, who was attempting bravely to choke down some food. "How are you feeling? I'm sure Lestrade will understand if I just go, you don't have to push yourself to go out if you don't want."

"Absolutely terrible, to answer your first question." Sherlock conceded blithely. The second question needed a little more thought however.   
"I... Think it would be prudent if I were to go with you." Unspoken was the thought that there was a rich, human, killer who knew an unspecified amount about him, and he was a little too vulnerable in his current state to deal with that, should his fan know his address. And of course there was always the danger that John would once again be mistaken for him. In that case, Sherlock didn't want to let him out of his sight.

John nodded decisively, feeling much better knowing that Sherlock would be in his care, however hard on him it may be. "Right. In that case I suppose we'll just wait for him to ring." Of course John meant the phone, but at that moment the doorbell sounded, causing both of them to look towards the entryway in surprise. "Who could that be?" John mused. Surely Lestrade hadn't come all the way to Baker Street when he could have just asked them to come to his office.

The same thought had occurred to Sherlock. He tensed up, worried for a moment that his musings on his 'fan' paying them a visit had come to pass.   
After a moment, there was a knock on their door, Mrs. Hudson’s voice calling to John.  
"Mr. Watson, there's a young lady here to see you."

This was even more confusing. John was notoriously bad at talking to women (though he would never admit it) and certainly hadn't had time to date since he was discharged. "Er, right," he called back, looking around aimlessly for a beat before abruptly standing up. "Be there in a tick." With one last befuddled glance at Sherlock he answered the door.

It opened on a very attractive, very preoccupied, very /familiar/ woman.   
"Hello again." she greeted, shouldering past John and into the flat, all without looking up from her phone.

"Anthea?" he asked in surprise, closing the door absentmindedly behind her. "What are you doing here?" /And where's your boss?/ was the unspoken question. Sherlock and he had had enough enemies to deal with lately, he didn't need another in his flat.

Sherlock looked up at the woman who entered and groaned. "John, you're ex-military. Was there really /nothing/ you could have done to prevent this?"  
"Nice to see you again too." Anthea said, actually providing Sherlock with a quick glance and a smile.

"I couldn't just shut the door on her!" John complained in an exasperated fashion. Inwardly he was relieved that Anthea and Sherlock already seemed to be acquainted; he didn't want Sherlock to throw another fit because more humans had seen him.

"Why ever /not?/" Sherlock shot back, as the woman placed a large purse on the table and unzipped it, seeming infinitely more amused by Sherlock’s comments than offended.   
"You always were so aggressive, Sherlock." A familiar tiny man stepped out of the purse with all the dignity of one exiting a stretch limo.

John frowned and hovered by the entrance to the kitchen. The mysterious man seemed much more… personal with Sherlock than he had expected. As long as Sherlock didn't seem to be in immediate danger he was content to stand back and observe.

Sherlock adopted a bored, aloof air, which was actually rather difficult to do while swaddled in bandages and still sporting smudges of jam on his fingers from breakfast.  
"Oh you know your visits always bring out the best in me."

"Hm," Mycroft replied in a noncommittal sort of way, a corner of his mouth twitching up into an irritated smile. "Don't worry, I can't stay long. I simply promised mummy that I would stop by and make sure you weren't dead after last nights… events." With this he gave Sherlock a cynical, perfunctory glance, seemingly satisfied that despite the injuries he would be fine.  
"Wait, who's mummy?" John asked, standing up from where he had been leaning against the wall and taking a step towards them. His brow was furrowed with confusion. Hadn't Mycroft said he was Sherlock's enemy?

"You've been tattling again?" Sherlock asked incredulously, ignoring John altogether.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Well, I could hardly leave her in the dark, could I? The account was in all of the papers, along with the name of your human." John was a bit miffed by being referred to as 'Sherlock's human' but was too puzzled by the conversation to interrupt. "It's only natural that we should be worried."

Sherlock looked at John sharply. "You didn't think to check the paper this morning." He accused, frustrated that he'd missed that vital bit of news. How exactly had the press gotten John's name? He was going to have quite a lot to say to Lestrade on the matter of his people giving away information they really shouldn't to the press.   
"Well," he continued, turning back to Mycroft before John could defend himself. "Not that this hasn't been pleasant, but as you can see I'm alive. Now, don't want to keep you. You do have a government to run."

"Yes, and with the Korean elections coming up I have quite a lot to do," Mycroft said, giving his umbrella a twirl. He turned to smirk conspiratorially at John. "Not that you need to know anything about that." Facing Sherlock once more he gave him a keen look. "Do try to keep yourself a bit more secret. You know how publicity could affect us; /all/ of us." After that he coolly returned to Anthea's purse, disappearing from sight as if he had never existed in the first place.

Anthea picked the purse back up with a smooth, practiced motion. It was fluid, and wouldn't have jostled the man inside at all. Without so much as a goodbye, she exited the flat.

"What on earth was that all about?" John demanded, closing the door behind Anthea and watching out the window as she slipped back into a slick black car. He returned to the kitchen, giving Sherlock a questioning glance.

"Sibling rivalry, I suppose you could call it." Sherlock said offhand. It always put him in a bit of a mood whenever he was forced to deal with Mycroft, but this time he was particularly upset because his brother had made a valid point. Exposure to more and more humans was not just dangerous for him, but for everyone like him. He might have to be more careful in the future. Still, Mycroft’s condescending urgings against his latest exhibitionist behavior, to say nothing of his brazenly hinting at his disapproval of his association with John, only served to strengthen his resolve to continue with his current living arrangements.

"You mean…. he's your brother?" the doctor exclaimed, letting the curtain fall again. Well that certainly changed things; not that he liked Mycroft any better now, but at least he wasn't a threat. John walked back to the table and sat down with a huff. "You could have told me that," he said petulantly.

"Well, you didn't ask." Sherlock dismissed.

Just then John's pocket buzzed. He reached into his jeans and pulled out his phone, which had probably been used more in the past three days than in the entire time he had owned it. "Hello?" he said after answering it. "Yeah, of course. We'll be over soon." After that he hung up, slipping his phone back in his pocket and looking over at Sherlock. "That was Lestrade," he explained. "We're expected at the Yard."

Sherlock was already standing, he'd figured it must have been Lestrade. “Right, well, mustn’t keep the inspector waiting." He said, a hint of humor in his tone.

"Mr. Holmes?" John said, offering a familiar hand and a trusting smile.

Sherlock smiled wryly. “Doctor Watson.” He walked over and literally putting his life in the hands of John Watson. Again. Though much more easily did he do so then he had mere days ago.

When he was once again settled in the man’s inner jacket pocket, he piped up again. “Do you think we ought to catch a cab?” He asked, the smile evident in his tone. 

“/Absolutely/ not.” John answered, shutting the door to their flat behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this story!
> 
> Creatorofuniverses and I have already started on the Blind Banker, but we haven't had a chance to get too far yet. Her schedule has changed, and we've yet to hit on a new time slot for our rp sessions. :(
> 
> But I hope you enjoyed our little round robin!   
> If you've got any feedback for us, good or bad, please leave a comment. We'd love to know what you think, so we can apply it in our next fic. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!   
> ~Ridel~

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is an RP I played with a friend from Tumblr, so I'm sorry if the constant switching of perspectives is a bit jarring.  
> Still, I really enjoyed writing this with Creatorofuniverses, and I hope you have at least half as much fun reading it. :)
> 
> She played the part of John while I played Sherlock.  
> All other characters throughout the story are shared between us. 
> 
> This is a completed story, though I will only upload a new chapter (Of which there are eight, I believe) every other day, as we haven't had a chance to start on The Blind Banker yet. ;)
> 
> Enjoy!  
> And if you have any thoughts/comments/constructive criticism, please sock it to us!  
> Creatorofuniverses and I would love to hear what you have to say. ^__^


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